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GEORGE  WHARTON  JAMES 


GIFT   OF 


ROSE  HARTWICK  THORPE 

AND  THE  STORY  OF 

"CURFEW  SHALL  NOT  RING 
TONIGHT" 


The  Souvenir  Bell  of  porcelain,  an  exact  fac-simile  of  the  Curfew- 
bell,  with  wooden  clapper  made  from  the  old  oaken  beams 
that  for  700  years  supported  the  bell  in  the  tower  of  Chertsey 
Abbey,  near  London,  England. 


Rose  Hartwick  at  16  years  of  age,  just  before 
she  wrote  "Curfew  Shall  Not  Ring  To 
night." 


Rose  Hartwick  at  19  years  of  age,  about  the 
time  when  "Curfew"  was  first  published  in 
the  Detroit  Commercial  Advertiser. 


ROSE  HARTWICK  THORPE 

AND  THE  STORY  OF 

"CURFEW  MUST  MOT  RING 
TO-NIGHT" 

BY 

GEORGE  WHARTON  JAMES 

With  the  Poem 

and  Its  Original  Illustrations  and  Music  'for 
Public  Recitation. 


THE  RADIANT  LIFE  PRESS 

1098  N.  Raymond  AS>e. 
Pasadena,  Cal. 


Copyright  1916 

B>>  EDITH  E.  FARNSWORTH 

Entered  also  at 
Stationer's  Hall,  London,  Eng. 


ROSE  HARTWICK  THORPE 

AND  THE  STORY  OF 

"CURFEW  MUST  NOT  RING 
TO-NIGHT 


J  J 


HO  is  there  that  has  not  read  "Curfew  Must  Not  Ring 
Tonight"  ?  Or  if  he  has  not  read  it,  has  not  heard  it  quoted  or 
referred  to  as  familiarly  as  household  words?  It  has  been  trans 
lated  into  scores  of  tongues.  It  has  been  recited  in  every  school, 
lyceum,  and  pulpit  throughout  the  English-speaking  world.  It 
has  been  parodied  a  score  of  times,  by  as  many  different  humor 
ists  ;  and  nothing  is  parodied  that  is  not  already  familiarly 
known. 

And,  strange  to  say,  this  world-popular  ballad  was  not  writ 
ten  by  a  master  of  English  verse,  one  who  had  already  won  his  laurels,  but  by 
a  sixteen-year-old  schoolgirl,  devoid  of  any  education  save  that  afforded  by 
the  "little  red  schoolhouse"  of  the  American  country  side,  and  gained  in  a 
home  where  books  were  as  rare,  scarce,  and  precious  as  jewels  and  diamonds, 
and  far  more  treasured. 

As  far  as  I  know,  the  full  story  of  this  ballad  has  never  been  told,  so  I 
am  glad  to  have  the  opportunity  of  presenting  the  account  as  it  was  recently 
given  to  me  by  its  author,  Rose  Hartwick  Thorpe,  at  her  present  home  in 
San  Diego,  California. 

Her  father  was  one  of  the  pioneers  in  the  new  country  of  Northern 
Indiana  and  there,  at  Mishawka,  Rose  was  born.  She  had  two  brothers  and 
two  sisters,  her  place  being  second  in  the  list.  She  can  trace  her  ancestry  back 
many,  many  generations  to  that  merry  king,  celebrated  in  song  and  story : 

Old   King   Cole  was   a   merry   old    soul ; 
And  a  merry  old  soul  was  he. 

The  name  originally  was  Coil,  but  in  time  became  known  as  Cole.  Her 
father's  mother  was  Elinor,  whose  parents  early  brought  her  to  Canada,  and 
one  of  the  treasured  possessions  of  the  family  to  this  day  is  the  Coat  of  Arms 
of  the  Coles,  which  clearly  indicates  the  kingly  descent  claimed. 

Yet  far  prouder  than  of  her  distinguished  and  more  remote  ancestry  is 
her  feeling  of  pride  in  her  grandfather,  who  united  with  the  noble  patriots 
who  fought  against  the  tyranny  of  England  and  demanded  freedom  for  them 
selves  and  their  sons. 

The  first  ten  years  of  Rose's  life  were  happily  spent  at  Mishawka.  Her 
father  must  have  been  fairly  well-to-do,  for  her  remembrances  are  that  every 
reasonable  wish  was  gratified,  and  there  wrere  no  severe  hardships  to  encounter. 
Then  came  disaster.  Her  father  became  security  for  some  one  who  failed, 
and  he  was  called  upon  to  make  good  the  deficiency.  It  completely  ruined 
him.  Disheartened  and  discouraged,  he  sought  a  new  field  of  labor  and  enter 
prise  in  the  new  country  of  Kansas,  where  his  wife's  brother  had  already 


370883 


6     /-    "..'.-       :  •         ;  ROSA  HARTVVICK  THORPE  and  the  Story  of 

located.  This  move  merely  added  misfortune  to  disaster.  It  was  the  year 
of  the  great  drought.  Other  States  were  called  upon  to  assist  the  starving 
people  and  Rose  well  recalls  the  beans  and  corn-meal  that  were  sent  in,  and 
that  formed  the  chief  articles  of  their  diet.  To  this  day  she  has  no  relish  for 
either  food,  so  distasteful  did  they  become  in  their  monotonous  regularity  in 
those  weeks  of  wretchedness  and  hardship. 

At  last  her  father  felt  anything  was  better  than  the  bare  existence  they 
were  eking  out  in  Kansas,  and  as  there  were  other  brothers  and  sisters  in 
Michigan,  he  decided  to  go  there.  How  he  got  there  has  always  been  a  mys 
tery  to  Mrs.  Thorpe,  for  she  is  perfectly  sure  he  had  no  money  to  go  with, 
butvin  a  very  short  time,  she,  her  mother,  brothers  and  sisters  were  cheered 
and  delighted  by  the  presence  of  one  of  her  uncles,  who  had  come  to  "pack 
them  up"  and  carry  them  away  back  to  Michigan.  Here  a  house  was  found 
by  one,  furniture  by  another,  clothing  and  groceries  by  another,  until  the  needy 
ones  could  find  themselves  once  more,  and  thus  began  Rose's  life  at  Litchfield, 
Michigan,  which  she  was  soon  to  make  famous  in  history.  Her  father  was  a 
first-class  tailor,  unafraid  and  unashamed  to  work,  yet  it  was  a  pretty  hard 
struggle  to  keep  things  going  by  the  activity  of  his  needle.  Hence  it  can  well  be 
imagined  there  were  no  unnecessary  luxuries  provided  for  Rose  and  her  brothers 
and  sisters  in  the  Litchfield  days.  Neither  did  any  one  know  or  care  what  their 
ancestry  was.  The  deeds  of  today  are  what  win  respect  and  the  friendliness 
of  neighbors.  The  Hartwicks  were  good  neighbors,  and  so  had  good  neigh 
bors  in  return ;  hence,  when  Rose,  a  growing  girl,  desired  to  expand  her 
reading,  she  was  allowed  to  borrow  the  few  scant  books  and  magazines  they 
possessed.  Her  only  books  in  those  days  were  the  Bible,  a  small  school  diction 
ary,  and  her  school  reader.  There  was  a  frame  schoolhouse,  of  course,  and 
thither  Rose  went  daily  with  her  brothers  and  sisters  and  companions.  But, 
while  a  genuine  youngster,  enjoying  all  the  sports  of  her  fellows,  there  was 
something  in  her  a  little  different  from  the  others.  Her  mother  noticed  it, 
for  she  often  spoke  of  Rose's  habit  of  "making  up"  poetry  about  her  dolls, 
which  she  would  recite  to  them. 

When  Rose  was  about  eleven  years  of  age,  a  niece  of  her  mother  came  to 
live  with  them  so  that  she  might  attend  their  high  school,  which  had  a  great 
local  reputation.  Rose  was  then  in  the  primary  grade.  One  evening  as  she 
sat  by  the  fire,  writing  diligently  on  her  slate,  her  cousin  bent  over  it  and 
inquired:  "What  are  you  doing."  "Writing  poems,"  was  the  reply.  "The 
idea!"  was  the  scornful  response  from  the  young  miss,  more  advanced  in  years 
and  scholarship.  "You  can't  write  poems.  Let  me  see!"  After  she  had  satis 
fied  herself,  she  exclaimed:  "Rosie,  you  never  wrote  that.  You  copied  it. 
Listen,  Aunt  Mary,  Rosie  says  she  wrote  this."  And  she  read  the  lines  aloud 
to  her  aunt.  Then  turning  to  her  half-scared,  half-defiant  cousin,  she  chal 
lenged:  "If  you  really  wrote  that,  write  a  poem  about  me."  This  was  just 
what  Rose  wanted,  and  she  proceeded  to  write  some  rhymed  lines  about  her 
cousin,  which,  when  completed,  she  triumphantly  read.  "And,"  said  Mrs. 
Thorpe,  in  telling  the  story  years  after  to  the  friend  who  told  me,  "I  don't 
know  that  I  evoked  more  satisfaction  in  any  of  my  later  work  than  that  which 
I  felt  when  Cousie  Abbie  turned  to  my  mother  and  said:  'Well,  Aunt  Mary, 
I  guess  she  wrote  that  other  poem.'  " 

The  result  of  this  triumph  was  soon  to  prove  to  the  young  versifier  the 
truth  of  the  aphorism  that  the  reward  of  good  work  is  the  opportunity  to  do 
more  work,  for  the  students  of  the  high  school  were  in  the  habit  of  having  a 
"speaking"  each  month,  and  one  of  the  expected  "pieces"  was  a  "pome,"  con- 


CURFEW  MUST  NOT  RING  To-Main 
taining  local  hits,  puns  and  the  like.     Abbie  called  upon  Rosie  to  exercise  her 
gifts  for  this  paper,  and  thereafter  every  month,  for  quite  a  time,  she  was  the 
real,  though  generally  uncredited,  poet  of  these  occasions. 

When  I  think  of  the  many  pleasures,  recreations,  and  amusements  pro 
vided  for  the  young  people  of  our  day,  whether  in  city  or  country,  I  ask  myself 
what  would  they  do  were  they  suddenly  thrust  back  into  the  life  of  the  youths 
and  maidens  of  fifty  years  ago  in  the  pioneer  country  settlements.  Homes  far 
apart,  books  few,  newspapers  rare,  magazines  rarer  still,  few  musical  instru 
ments  of  any  kind,  few  concerts,  lectures,  or  other  forms  of  amusement  most 
common  nowadays,  how  would  they  fill  up  their  spare  time,  how  pass  the 
hours,  how  endure  the  tedium  of  the  daily  task. 

In  Rose  Hartwick's  home  the  children  grew  up  under  the  prevalent' 
restricted  and  restricting  conditions.  But  Rose  herself  lived  largely  in  a  world 
of  her  own.  Impressionable,  with  an  intense  nature,  feeling  every  emotion 
keenly  and  deeply,  easily  stirred,  every  book  or  magazine  she  could  get  hold  of 
stimulated  her  imagination  and  peopled  her  world  with  the  creations  of  her 
brain.  About  the  time  of  her  fifteenth  birthday  some  one  gave  her  a  copy  of 
Byron's  poems.  This  opened  up  a  wealth  of  new  associations.  She  traveled 
in  that  intense  world  of  the  imagination  all  the  countries  visited  by  Childe 
Harold :  she  associated  with  the  scores  of  strange  and  hitherto  unknown 
people  pictured  by  the  poet's  genius.  Possessing  the  dramatic  instinct,  the 
growing  girl,  the  feelings  of  dawning  womanhood  stirring  within  her,  became 
the  characters  of  which  she  read.  Books  were  so  rare,  and  especially  books 
of  poetry,  that  she  read  and  re-read  every  poem  until  their  every  line  was 
familiar  to  her.  She  knew  every  thought  of  every  actor  in  every  poem.  She 
saw  each  scene  as  distinctly  as  though  it  were  her  father's  back-yard.  What 
though  she  pictured  incorrectly?  That  she  saw  things  through  the  glamour 
of  romance?  It  was  the  glorification  of  her  life,  the  enlargement  of  her 
world,  the  making  of  a  cosmopolite  out  of  the  little  country  girl. 

In  those  days  periodical  literature  was  much  more  restricted  than  it  is 
today,  there  being  but  few  magazines  in  the  field.  One  of  these  was  Peterson  s. 
It  had  the  usual  pages  devoted  to  women's  fashions  and  matters  supposed  to 
be  dear  to  the  woman's  heart ;  had  a  fair  sprinkling  of  tolerable  poetry  and 
enough  fiction  to  make  it  interesting,  with  occasional  essays,  political,  social, 
historical  and  otherwise. 

Their  neighbor,  Dr.  Coston,  who  lived  directly  across  the  dusty  road  of 
the  country  town,  in  a  house  glorified  with  a  row  of  maple  trees,  was  a  regu 
lar  subscriber  and  Rose  was  privileged  to  borrow  each  month's  issue  as  soon 
as  the  family  had  finished  reading  it.  But  she  was  a  voracious  reader,  and 
soon  the  current  issues  were  not  enough  to  supply  her  needs.  Back  numbers 
were  just  as  good  as  current  ones.  They  fed  the  imagination  just  as  well  one 
month  as  another.  So,  one  day,  when  all  her  regular  tasks  were  done,  she 
asked  her  mother  if  she  might  go  over  to  Dr.  Coston's  for  another  magazine. 
The  consent  was  readily  given  and  Rose  tripped  out  on  what  was  the  most 
memorable  call  of  her  life.  How  great  events  hang  on  seemingly  trivial 
actions.  Who  could  have  dreamed  that  this  merry,  happy,  dancing,  yet  far- 
eyed,  thoughtful  child,  skipping  over  the  dusty  road,  receiving  the  gray- 
covered  magazine  with  a  sparkle  of  gratitude  in  each  eye,  and  a  careful  hand 
ling  of  it  that  was  almost  a  reverence,  was  stepping  through  the  doorway  of 
a  fame  accorded  to  few  even  of  the  great  writers  of  our  English  tongue  ?  Yet 
it  was  so,  for  in  the  pages  of  that  magazine  was  the  story  that  was  to  stir 
maiden  Rose's  heart  to  the  writing  of  "Curfew  Must  Not  Ring  Tonight'' 


8  ROSE  HARTWICK  THORPE  and  the  Story  of 

I  hold  this  magazine  in  my  hands  as  I  write.  Its  cover  is  plain  almost 
to  ugliness,  and  compared  with  the  gaudy,  many-colored  "artistic"  magazine 
covers  of  today  would  be  esteemed  "positively  hideous."  Yet  in  those  days 
people  were  not  so  much  influenced  by  exterior  prepossessiveness  as  by  the 
worth  of  the  contents.  This  issue  is  dated,  September,  1865.  On  page  185  is 
the  beginning  of  a  story  headed  "Love  and  Loyalty,"  and  it  is  "By  a  new  Con 
tributor,"  so  we  do  not  know — and  perhaps  never  will  know — by  whom  it  was 
written.  It  is  a  story  of  ten  pages  in  length,  and  had  it  not  been  for  the  effect 
of  the  poem  that  was  soon  to  be  born  from  its  perusal,  would  perhaps  never 
have  been  heard  of  again  in  the  world.  It  is  a  fairly  well  written  story 
in  somewhat  of  the  style  of  a  bye-gone  age,  such  a  story  as  few  editors  of 
modern  magazines  would  be  likely  to  accept  and  publish.  Yet  so  satisfied  am  I 
that  many  persons  would  like  to  read  it  that  I  have  had  the  pages  photo 
graphed  and  reproduced  in  exact  facsimile  of  the  original,  with  Mrs.  Thorpe's 
annotation  on  the  first  page  that  this  is  the  story  that  led  to  the  writing  of  her 
memorable  poem. 

The  effect  of  this  story  upon  the  young  school  girl  was  marvelous.  That 
night  the  various  scenes  in  the  drama  were  enacted  again  and  again  in  her 
dreams.  She  saw  the  child  Bessie,  living  at  Underwood  Hall,  the  pet  and 
plaything  of  all  the  family, -educated  almost  as  one  of  the  baron's  own  children. 
She  gasped  in  a  spasm  of  loyalty  as  she  imagined  the  feelings  of  the  grown-up 
maiden,  Bessie,  when  King  Charles  appeared  at  the  Hall  and  smiled  upon 
her.  She  let  her  heart  go  out  in  love  to  the  old  baron  and  his  lady,  that  they 
allowed  their  son  Basil  to  make  honorable  love  to  Bessie,  with  the  hope  that 
one  day  she  would  be  the  mistress  of  the  Hall,  and  the  mother  of  their  son's 
children.  Then  she  shivered  with  terror  as  she  imagined  the  country  overrun 
with  the  Puritan  soldiers,  the  hall  deserted,  and  Basil,  her  lover,  in  camp  with 
the  Cavaliers.  Civil  war  in  all  its  horrors  visaged  itself  before  her.  Then 
she  thrilled  (child  in  body  though  she  was),  as  her  imagination  pictured  for 
her  the  tenderness  of  the  meetings  of  Basil  and  Bessie,  in  her  forester  father's 
home  in  the  woods,  where,  in  spite  of  the  active  Puritans,  he  often  found  him 
self.  And  anon  she  cried  in  her  sleep  when  the  old  forester  died,  and  in 
dying  commended  his  sweet  child  to  the  care  and  keeping  of  her  lover. 

Then,  ah  then,  she  saw  Basil,  leaving  Bessie,  overtaken  by  a  horseman 
who  insisted  upon  riding  with  him ;  saw  them  arrested  as  spies ;  taken  before 
the  stern  commander;  tried  by  the  Puritan  Council,  and  placed  in  jeopardy  of 
their  lives.  And  how  she  cried  in  sympathy  and  felt  her  heart  beat  high  in 
response  to  the  daring  and  courage  of  Bessie,  who  went  before  the  Council  and 
pleaded  for  the  life  of  her  lover,  clearly  showing  that  he  could  not  have  been 
a  spy,  and  corroborating  his  story  as  to  not  having  seen  the  real  spy  until  very 
shortly  before  their  arrest.  And  sobs  again  came  from  her  as  she  slept  and 
heard  in^  her  vivid  dream  the  judgment  of  the  stern  Council  that,  in  spite 
of  Bessie's  testimony,  Basil  should  die  that  night  when  Curfew  sent  its  doleful 
sound  over  the  land. 

Then  how  her  heart  leaped  with  Bessie's  when  she  saw  her  hastening 
toward  the  camp  of  Cromwell,  to  whom  she  was  going  to  appeal  for  the  sake 
of  his  old  friendship  for  her  father,  to  believe  her  story  and  save  her  lover. 
And  her  heart  sank  with  Bessie's  as  she  heard  the  stern  sentinel  tell  the  eager 
maiden  that  Cromwell  would  not  return  until  long  after  the  hour  of  Curfew's 
tolling.  Now  she  felt  all  the  agony  of  despair,  until  a  fresh  leap  of  hope  came 
when  Bessie  thought  of  going  to  the  sexton  of  the  Abbey,  where  hung  the 
Curfew  bell,  and  pleading  with  him  not  to  ring  Curfe\v  until  Cromwell  had 


CURFEW  MUST  NOT  RING  TO-NIGHT  9 

returned  and  given  her  the  opportunity  to  plead  for  her  lover's  life.  And 
again  she  felt  the  griping  pangs  of  hopelessness  as  the  stern  old  sexton  responded 
to  Bessie's  pleading  with  the  harsh  reply:  "Child,  take  your  gold  and  jewels. 
All  my  life  of  service  Curfew  has  rung  as  surely  as  the  sun  has  set.  Not  even 
to  save  your  lover's  life  dare  I  set  aside  this  ancient  custom !" 

Ah!  then  she  felt  the  heart-questionings  of  Bessie.  Was  she  to  see  her 
lover  die?  Was  there  no  hope?  Was  there  no  possible  way  of  averting  his 
fate?  And  as  the  answer  came  it  produced  a  joy  that  was  twin  sister  to  pain 
in  its  suffocating  ecstasy.  As  the  sexton  swung  open  the  door  and  turned 
towards  the  belfry  rope  she  saw  Bessie  spring  in,  and  dashing  up  the  slimy 
and  foul  steps  of  the  tower,  hasten  with  breathless  speed  towards  the  belfry 
above.  Just  as  she  saw  her  on  the  platform  over  which  the  bell  swung,  the 
sexton  began  to  pull  the  rope.  Slowly  the  wheel  revolved,  and  in  another 
moment  the  clapper  would  have  tolled  out  the  first  note  of  Curfew,  when 
Bessie  grasped  it,  and,  her  lover's  life  depending  upon  the  firmness  of  her 
hold,  she  saw  her  swing  out  into  space  as  she  sobbed  out:  "Curfew  must  not, 
shall  not,  ring  tonight."  And  how  she  rejoiced  with  Bessie,  even  in  her  thrill 
ing  danger,  as  she  swung  to  and  fro,  that  the  old  sexton's  deaf  ears  could  not 
warn  him  that  no  sound  was  coming  from  the  bell  as  the  result  of  his  labor. 
When  the  swinging  of  the  bell  had  ceased  she  saw,  with  streaming  eyes,  poor 
Bessie,  faint  and  white  with  pain,  look  at  her  bruised  and  bleeding  hands  and 
arms  where  they  had  been  cruelly  dashed  upon  the  brazen  circle  of  the  bell. 
Then  she  saw  the  loving  maiden,  tottering  and  uncertain  of  step,  find  her  way 
down  the  belfry  stairs,  and  again  wend  her  way  to  Cromwell's  camp,  meet 
the  great  general,  tell  her  story,  show  her  bruised  and  injured  hands,  and  plead 
with  him  for  her  lover's  life.  And  what  joy  soothed  her  sympathetic  little 
soul,  even  though  it  was  all  in  her  dreams,  when  she  saw  Cromwell  write 
and  sign  the  mandate  that  bade  his  soldiers  let  Basil  Underwood  go  free. 

Think  of  a  maiden's  slumber  haunted  by  visions  like  these ;  try  to  realize 
the  emotions  that  chased  each  other  through  her  tender  heart.  Recall  that 
she  was  naturally  prone  to  express  her  thoughts  in  verse.  Yet  remember  also, 
that  she  was  but  a  child,  scarce  budded  into  maidenhood,  and  that  her  parents 
were  so  poor  that  the  slate  was  the  only  means  they  could  provide  her  with 
for  writing  down  the  lines  that  clamored  for  expression  within  her. 

When  morning  came  her  mother  saw  that  her  eyes  were  still  heavy,  as 
though  she  had  either  slept  little,  or  her  sleep  had  been  disturbed  with  haunt 
ing  dreams.  Knowing  her  child's  tendency  to  write  in  preference  to  study 
ing  her  lessons  she  cautioned  her  to  give  special  heed  to  the  commands  of  her 
teacher,  hence,  when  she  came  back  home  at  night  and  told  her  mother  that 
the  teacher  had  had  to  rebuke  her  for  her  inattention,  she  was  not  surprised 
that  her  mother  urged  her,  with  more  than  usual  fervor,  to  leave  all  reading 
that  night ;  forbade  her  writing  any  "poetry,1'  and  insisted  that  all  the  evening 
be  spent  on  mastering  the  neglected  arithmetic  lessons. 

Remorsefully  and  perfectly  in  accord  with  her  mother's  commands — for 
Rose  knew  that  the  rebukes  of  teacher  and  mother  were  justified — she  promised 
obedience,  and  sat  down  by  the  fireside,  earnestly  and  sincerely  desirous  of 
doing  only  what  she  had  promised. 

But  there  are  times  when  the  Godhood  within  us  is  more  powerful  than 
our  wills  and  more  compelling  than  our  promises  to  parents,  teachers,  kings 
and  potentates.  Poor  Rose  was  to  learn  this  now.  For,  in  spite  of  everything, 
her  pencil  began  to  move  across  the  slate  with  a  greater  speed  than  it  had  ever 
moved  before,  and  than  arithmetic,  spelling,  history,  grammar,  or  composition 


10  ROSA  HARTWICK  THORPE  and  the  Story  of 

had  ever  been  able  to  bring  about.  It  seemed  like  magic.  Rose  forgot  prom 
ises,  lessons,  the  house  in  which  she  lived,  the  Indiana  of  her  birth.  She  was 
transplanted  to  England,  and  as  the  pictures  of  the  night  before  came  back 
to  her  excited  brain  she  wrote  in  her  childish  and  unformed,  yet  legible  hand: 

BESSIE   AND   THE   CURFEW 

England's  sun  was  setting,  behind  the  hills  so  far  away, 
Filled  the  land  with  mystic  beauty,  at  the  close  of  that  sad  day. 

Mrs.  Thorpe's  own  account  of  the  way  Bessie  intruded  upon  her  mathe 
matical  endeavors  was  thus  related  in  the  Chicago  Inter-Ocean  of  June  5,  1887. 

The  figures  became  a  confused  unintelligible  jumble  of  meaningless  characters; 
but  clearly  and  distinctly  before  my  mental  vision  arose  these  words:  "Curfew  must 
not  ring  tonight."  Again  and  again  I  resolutely  banished  them,  but  they  returned 
persistently,  until  in  sheer  desperation  I  swept  the  exasperating  figures  from  my  slate 
and  wrote  "England's  sun  was  slowly  setting."  Rapidly  flew  my  pencil,  with  sharp, 
regular  clicks,  down  the  surface  of  my  slate,  but  faster  the  thoughts  came,  crowding 
into  my  throbbing  brain,  while  all  my  being  seemed  on  fire  with  the  triumph  of 
impulse  over  duty.  Which  was  duty?  The  unlearned  lesson  or  the  completed  poem? 
I  was  conscience-smitten  when  my  mother  looked  in  at  the  door  to  inform  me  that 
a  young  friend  had  called.  "Oh  mother,"  I  cried,  "please  excuse  me  for  a  few 
moments.  I  must  finish  this,"  and  she,  thinking  I  desired  to  complete  my  lesson  (for 
I  still  held  the  arithmetic  in  my  hand),  excused  me  to  my  friend  for  a  few  minutes. 

Again  she  returned  to  her  poem  and  when  it  was  finished,  her  mind 
slowly  came  back  to  her  Michigan  home.  Looking  around,  she  saw  she  was 
by  her  own  fireside,  and  the  slate  in  her  hands  was  supposed  to  bear  the 
evidence  of  her  finished  lessons. 

These,  alas,  were  untouched.  Again  she  recalled  the  promise  she  had 
made  to  her  mother.  Alas !  She  had  broken  her  word ;  the  lessons  were  not 
done,  and  it  was  nearly  bedtime.  Repentant  and  appalled  at  her  naughtiness 
Rose  rushed,  with  tears,  to  her  mother:  "Oh!  mother  dear,  I  can  hardly 
believe  it,  but  I  could  not  help  it.  I  didn't  intend  to  deceive  you.  I  did 
just  what  I  promised  you  I  would  not  do.  I  sat  down  with  the  full  inten 
tion  of  writing  nothing  but  my  lessons,  and  before  I  knew  it,  these  verses 
came  and  I  had  to  write  them.  Just  let  me  read  them  to  you,  then  I  will 
wash  them  off  my  slate,  forget  them  and  do  my  lessons." 

Seeing  her  child  so  full  of  repentance,  the  wise  mother  uttered  no  rebuke, 
but  listened  as  Rose  read  what  she  had  written.  When  she  had  read  it  all  the 
young  author,  in  her  abasement  at  having  forgotten  her  promise,  was  about  to 
erase  the  lines,  but  her  mother  stayed  her  hand.  "Wait  awhile,  child,  let  them 
stay  on  your  slate  until  morning.  Never  mind  your  lessons.  I  think  I  would 
like  you  to  write  those  verses  on  paper  tomorrow  so  that  we  may  keep  them." 

Happy  that  her  mother  did  not  chide  her  Rose  went  to  bed.  In  the 
morning  the  poem  was  transcribed  and  thus  saved  for  the  pleasure  and  delight 
of  the  world. 

There  is  a  little  question  here  as  to  whether  this  first  transcription  on 
paper  was  made  in  a  small  blank  book  which,  either  at  this  time  or  later,  her 
mother  bought  for  her,  or  on  a  strip  of  the  long  white  paper  ribbon  is  rolled 
on.  Rose's  story  of  this  book  and  the  white  ribbon  paper  is  as  follows: 

When  I  was  about  sixteen  years  of  age  I  persuaded  my  mother  to  invest  fifty 
cents  in  a  blank  book  for  the  preservation  of  my  poetic  fancies.  It  was  a  great 
favor  to  ask.  I  fully  realized  the  magnitude  of  my  request,  also  that  fifty  cents 
was  a  vast  amount  of  money  in  a  family  of  seven,  where  a  tailor's  needle  must  supply 
the  needs  of  all.  It  may  be  that  she  recalled  the  record  of  my  childhood  days,  when, 


CURFEW  MUST  NOT  RING  TO-NIGHT  11 

as  sometimes  happened  at  rare  intervals,  a  cent  apiece  would  be  distributed  among 
the  children  to  .be  expended  as  our  inclination  dictated.  Oh,  wondrous  event  of  those 
early  times,  when,  with  clean,  stiff-starched  sunbonnets,  bright,  sunshiny  faces  fairly 
bubbling  over  with  joyous  anticipations,  with  each  respective  cent  treasured  carefully 
in  a  closed,  brown  palm,  we  filed  demurely  into  the  village  store,  and  with  conse 
quential  importance  purchased — for  the  rest — a  cent's  worth  of  candy,  a  cent's  worth 
of  chewing-gum,  a  cent's  worth  of  peanuts.  But  never  such  trivial  things  for  me. 
Invariably  my  cent  purchased  a  sheet  of  foolscap  writing  paper.  I  do  not  remember 
that  my  precious  cent  was  ever  squandered  in  any  other  way,  even  in  those  earlier 
years,  before  I  had  learned  to  write  and  could  only  print  my  little  rhymes  and  stories 
in  conspicuous  and  painstaking  capitals.  The  cents  did  not  find  their  way  into  my 
possession  often  enough  to  supply  the  ever-increasing  demand  for  paper,  consequently 
I  was  obliged  to  write  in  the  white  sand  and  in  the  pure,  new-fallen  snow.  I  haunted 
the  milliners'  stores  for  the  paper  in  which  ribbon  had  been  rolled.  My  writings 
were  finely  illustrated  and  elaborately  colored  with  the  petals  of  flowers  and  the 
green  of  leaves.  I  undertook  at  one  time  to  publish  an  illustrated  magazine,  issued 
weekly,  which  was  a  gratuitous  contribution  to  some  of  my  school  friends  who  appre 
ciated  my  talent  as  a  story-teller.  The  paper  supply  "falling  short"  after  the  blank 
leaves  from  our  school  books  had  all  been  utilized,  the  enterprise,  so  enthusiastically 
begun,  was  sorrowfully  abandoned,  but  the  continued  stories  were  completed  orally. 

I  am  inclined  to  believe  that  the  verses  were  first  transcribed  on  the 
milliners'  ribbon  paper,  and  later  into  the  book.  This  precious  little  book  is 
before  me  as  I  write.  It  is  only  a  common  blank  book,  bound  in  leather  with 
paper  board  sides,  the  paper  of  a  pale  blue  tint,  and  in  it  is  "Curfew,"  sand 
wiched  between  many  other  of  the  poetic  effusions  of  Rose's  girl  days.  The 
two  pages  that  contain  "Curfew"  however,  are  of  chief  interest.  The  poem 
is  dated  April  5,  1867,  and  one  can  see  the  child  in  the  spelling.  We  have 
"mistic,"  "tryed,"  "sollam,"  "murmer,"  "gased,"  "whare,"  "too  and  frow," 
"lader,"  "awfle,"  "beneth,"  "tounge,"  "sloped,"  "swang,"  "too  and  free," 
"funearel,"  "beeting,"  "siezed"  for  ceased,  "sweiping,"  "steped,"  "siers," 
"cryed,"  "twords,"  "geathered,"  "seigned." 

Here,  too,  is  a  stanza,  the  last  one,  which  was  never  published  as  written. 
Yet  it  is  interesting  to  see  this  first  impulse  of  the  young  poet,  and  now,  with 
her  permission,  I  publish  it.  And,  as  the  original  hand  writing  of  the  poem's 
author  will  surely  prove  interesting  to  many,  it  is  reproduced  in  exact  facsimile, 
with  the  extra  and  unused  stanza  attached. 

When  I  asked  Mrs.  Thorpe  to  allow  me  to  republish  this  facsimile  of 
her  famous  poem  she  hesitated  awhile.  There  were  several  reasons  why,  one 
of  which  was  the  poor  spelling.  I  have  noticed  this  spelling  purposely,  for 
there  are  critics  today  even,  who  would  condemn  a  poem  submitted  to  them 
were  the  spelling  no  better  than  this.  "They  strain  at  a  gnat  and  swallow 
a  camel."  Of  course,  it  is  well  that  one,  young  or  old,  should  know  how  to 
spell  properly,  but  let  us  never  forget  that  spelling  is  a  mere  mechanical  thing, 
and  of  secondary  or  tertiary  importance,  while  the  ability  to  write,  to  think,  to 
compose  is  the  thing,  the  matter  of  primary  importance. 

There  is  now  an  interesting  hiatus  in  the  story.  "Curfew"  was  written 
and  transcribed  in  the  book.  Doubtless  Rose  and  her  mother  once  in  awhile 
read  it  over,  and  it  is  easy  to  conceive  that  now  and  again  its  blushing  young 
author  was  called  upon  to  read  or  recite  it  to  adoring,  envying  or  jealous 
neighbors  when  they  came  to  call.  But  no  one  dreamed  of  the  fame  the  poem 
was  to  bring.  Greater  and  more  famous  writers  have  been  equally  unaware, 
Rudyard  Kipling  threw  his  "Recessional"  into  the  waste-basket,  from  whence 
it  was  rescued  by  his  more  discerning  wife,  and  Elbert  Hubbard  never  dreamed 
that  his  "Message  to  Garcia"  was  to  carry  his  name  to  the  ends  of  the 
earth.  Joaquin  Miller  little  conceived  of  the  worth  of  his  poem,  "Columbus/' 


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14  ROSA  HARTVVICK  THORPE  and  the  Story  of 

until  Tennyson  declared  it  was  the  greatest  poem,  expressive  of  a  nation's 
destiny,  ever  penned. 

Rose's  poem  remained  in  the  little  blank  book  until  fate  forced  its  publi 
cation  in  the  year  1870,  in  the  Detroit  Commercial  Advertiser,  and  it  hap 
pened  in  this  wise.  A  year  or  more  before  the  poem  was  written  Rose  had 
had  the  great  delight  of  sending  one  of  her  early  efforts  to  this  paper,  having 
it  accepted,  and  seeing  it  in  print.  The  editor  wrote,  saying  he  was  unable  to 
pay  her  for  more  of  her  verses,  but,  if  she  would  continue  to  send  them,  he 
would  gladly  send  her  the  paper — subscription  price,  $1.50  per  year.  Rose 
was  happy  enough  to  fly.  A  newspaper  worth  $1.50  a  year  for  her  verses! 
How  proud  she  was!  For,  let  it  not  be  forgotten,  she  was  but  a  child.  The 
accompanying  picture,  made  from  a  daguerrotype,  shows  her  appearance  at 
this  time.  Mobile  mouth,  the  eyes  of  a  dreamer,  lofty  and  broad  forehead, 
yet  who  would  have  guessed  that  this  unformed  maiden  had  dashed  off,  while 
1  she  should  have  been  "doing  her  lessons,"  a  ballad  that  should  ring  throughout 
the  English-speaking  world  more,  perhaps,  than  any  other  ever  written,  should 
be  translated  into  many  tongues,  and  thrill  more  hearts,  cause  more  tears  of 
sympathy  to  be  shed,  and  be  used  to  illustrate  more  sermons  than  history  could 
ever  record  ? 

The  idea  seems  never  to  have  entered  her  mind  to  send  the  poem  to  a 
publisher.  It  was  not  the  kind  of  verse  the  Commercial  had  asked  for.  These, 
she  wrote  as  a  pleasing  task.  But  she  was  taken  ill  with  typhoid  fever.  Her 
poem  for  that  week  was  already  written,  so  it  was  sent  and  appeared  in  due 
time.  The  following  week,  however,  she  was  too  ill  to  write  one,  so  she  copied 
out  "Curfew,"  and  sent  it  with  an  apology,  explaining  that  her  illness  pre 
vented  her  from  writing  the  expected  poem,  but  she  sent  this  instead. 

It  is  doubtful  whether  the  editor  grasped  the  significance  of  his  act  when 
he  published  it.  Anyhow  he  "accepted  the  apology"  and  the  poem,  and  it 
occupied  Rose's  usual  corner.  But  the  world  soon  knew  what  Rose  and  the 
editor  had  done.  Paper  after  paper  copied  the  ballad,  until  all  the  Eastern 
States,  all  Canada,  had  read  it,  and  boys  and  girls  were  reciting  it,  preachers, 
teachers,  elocutionists,  and  platform  orators  were  quoting  it  in  part  or  entire, 
with  such  dramatic  fire  and  gesture  as  they  deemed  most  appropriate. 

It  was  in  this  first  publication  that  Rose  was  instinctively  led  to  leave  off 
the  extra  stanza  reproduced  above.  The  poem  was  longer  than  those  she 
generally  sent  to  the  Commercial,  so,  to  keep  these  lines  a  little  nearer  the 
required  shortness,  she  cut  off  the  extra  stanza  and  let  the  poem  end  with 
Cromwell's  declaration : 

Go,   your   lover   lives;    Curfew    shall    not    ring   tonight. 

Even  yet,  however,  the  young  poet  did  not  know  what  Fate  had  done  for 
her.  Quietly  the  poem  was  winning  its  own  way,  and  in  1874,  Rossiter  John 
son,  then  living  in  Rochester,  New  York,  decided  to  publish  a  volume  entitled 
Waifs  and  Their  Authors,  to  consist  of  poems  of  popularity  and  power,  that, 
however,  had  only  appeared  hitherto  as  fugitive  verse  in  the  columns  of  current 
and,  some  of  them,  little-known,  newspapers. 

By  this  time  Rose  had  married  and  had  become  Mrs.  E.  C.  Thorpe,  and 
a  baby  girl  had  come  to  her.  Yet  she  was  the  same  child-hearted  creature,, 
still  a  dreamer,  still  unfamiliar  with  the  doing  of  business,  and  still  totally 
unaware  of  the  commercial  value  of  her  work.  So,  when  Mr.  Johnson,  struck 
by  "Curfew's"  power  and  beauty,  wrote  and  asked  for  particulars  as  to  the 
writing  of  the  poem,  and  expressed  a  wish  to  publish  it,  Mrs.  Thorpe  gave 


CURFEW  MUST  NOT  RING  TO-NIGHT  15 

him  the  required  information  and  permission.  But  in  telling  her  story  she 
raised  a  grave  doubt  in  the  mind  of  the  man  who  afterwards  was  to  become 
noted  as  a  critic  and  editor.  She,  when  a  sixteen-year-old  school  girl  write 
that  famous  ballad?  It  seemed  impossible,  and  he  refused  to  believe  it  until 
she  sent  to  him  the  new  stanza  which  she  had  decided  should  take  the  place  of 
the  one  which  she  had  rejected.  This  reads  as  follows: 

Wide  they  flung  the  massive  portals,  led  the  prisoner  forth  to  die, 

All  his  bright  young  life  before  him,  'neath  the  darkening  English  sky; 

Bessie  came  with  flying  footsteps,  ayes  aglow  with   lovelight  sweet, 

Kneeling  on  the  turf  beside  him,  laid  his  pardon  at  his  feet. 

In  his  brave,  strong  arms  he  elapsed  her,  kissed  the  face  upturned  and  white, 

Whispered,  "Darling,  you  have  saved  me,  Curfew  will  not  ring  tonight!" 

Nor  was  this  the  only  experience  of  the  kind.  At  a  later  date  the  bold 
claim  was  made  of  English  authorship  for  the  poem,  several  persons  asserting 
they  had  seen  it  in  an  old  English  reader  before  Mrs.  Thorpe  claimed  to  have 
written  it.  But,  though  repeatedly  challenged  to  produce  the  book,  or  find  its 
professed  author,  neither  one  nor  the  other  has  ever  appeared.  Needless  to 
say  they  never  will. 

This  publication,  by  Mr.  Johnson,  was  but  one  of  many.  Every  book 
of  Popular  Recitations  contained  it,  and  it  grew  in  public  favor,  the  more  it 
was  heard  and  read,  the  mere  echoes  of  which  scarcely  reached  the  ears  of  its 
author,  who  was  having  her  own  struggles  and  difficulties  to  overcome,  and 
hard  problems  to  solve,  to  which  I  shall  refer  later. 

Now  I  come  to  one  of  the  less  pleasing  features  of  this  interesting  story. 
It  deals  with  man's  duplicity,  cupidity,  selfishness  and  greed.  The  law  pro 
vides  for  the  protection  of  literary  property  the  same  as  any  other,  but  what\ 
could  a  young  country  girl,  even  though  a  married  woman,  know  of  such] 
things.  Her  father  and  husband  were  equally  ignorant.  What  should  a  '. 
country  tailor  or  a  carriage  builder  know  of  how  to  copyright  a  poem  ?  None 
of  them  knew,  and  no  one  told  them.  Not  even  the  Boston  publishers,  who, 
in  1881  realizing  the  popularity  of  the  poem,  wrote  and  asked  if  they  might 
publish  it.  They  wanted  permission,  they  said,  because  they  intended  to  have 
certain  noted  artists  illustrate  it,  at  considerable  expense,  and  without  such 
permission  they  did  not  care  to  proceed.  The  unsophisticated  country  woman, 
never  dreaming  of  the  property  value  of  her  poem,  felt  proud  and  honored  by 
this  distinguishing  mark  of  the  consideration  and  condescension  of  the  great 
Boston  publishers,  and  in  writing  a  ready  permission  suggested  that  they  use 
the  additional  and  last  verse  which  she  herewith  enclosed.  Not  a  word  was 
said  by  either  party  about  copyright,  for,  as  I  have  already  fully  explained, 
Rose  and  her  family  were  absolutely  ignorant  of  such  matters. 

On  receipt  of  this  reply,  the  gentlemanly  and  honorable  publishers  pro 
ceeded  to  get  out  the  poem,  with  its  illustrations,  but  before  issuing  it  coolly 
copyrighted,  not  alone  their  illustration  (which  they  certainly  had  a  right  to 
copyright),  but  the  whole  poem,  to  which  they  had  no  more  right  than  they 
had  to  the  crown  jewels  of  England.  Knowing  its  probable  value  in  this 
handsomely  illustrated  form,  these  men  deliberately  appropriated  it.  They 
knew  it  was  likely  to  bring  them  thousands  of  dollars,  possibly  hundreds  of 
thousands. 

One  would  have  thought  that  even  cold-blooded  business  men  would 
have  had  their  consciences  touched  when  they  saw  the  swelling  of  their  coffers 
by  this  act  of  theirs,  and  that  they  would  have  offered,  of  their  own  initiative, 
some  small  recompense  to  the  author.  But  no!  Instead,  she  assures  me  that 


16  ROSE  HARTWICK  THORPE  and  the  Story  of 

she  was  made  to  pay — wholesale  rates,  of  course — for  every  copy  she  received 
from  them,  even  though  she  bought  them  by  the  hundred. 

Nor  is  this  all!  Not  content  with  this  act,  these  "keen  business  men" 
went  further.  An  English  firm,  Caruthers  Brothers,  announced  through  their 
American  agent  that  they  were  about  to  put  on  the  English  and  American 
markets  a  very  handsomely  illustrated  edition  of  the  poem,  superior  in  every 
way  to  anything  yet  produced. 

Immediately  Lee  &  Shepard,  the  Boston  publishers,  through  their  lawyer, 
wrote  to  the  English  firm,  asserting  they  had  purchased  the  copyright  from  the 
author  and  threatening  legal  proceedings  if  the  book  was. issued.  Caruthers 
Brothers,  by  return  mail,  sent  this  letter  to  Mrs.  Thorpe,  asking  if  this  was  so. 
Here  was  the  first  intimation  the  innocent  woman  had  ever  received  that  the 
word  "copyright"  in  the  books  meant  that  the  Boston  publishers  had  done 
more  than  she  expected  them  to  do,  viz.,  copyright  their  own  property, — the 
illustrations.  Had  she  even  now  consulted  a  lawyer  some  redress  might  have 
been  obtained,  but  she  was  too  ignorant  of  law  to  understand  this.  At  the 
same  time,  too,  the  situation  was  made  harder  by  her  receiving  another  letter 
from  Lee  &  Shepard's  lawyer,  stating  that  as  they  had  purchased  the  copyright 
from  her.  they  positively  refused  to  allow  Caruthers  Bros,  to  publish  the  poem, 
and  would  appeal  to 'the  law  to  protect  their  rights.  The  wolf  appealing  to 
the  law  to  protect  it  in  its  right  to  the  fleece  of  the  lamb  it  had  shorn.  For  it 
must  be  remembered  they  were  yearly  shipping  numbers  of  copies  of  the 
poem  for  sale  in  England,  and  did  not  want  an  edition  to  be  issued  on  the 
other  side  of  the  Atlantic,  as  that  would  materially  reduce  their  own  profits, 
and  yet  not  one  cent  of  these  gains  was  ever  turned  over  to  Mrs.  Thorpe. 

Naturally  the  English  firm  dropped  the  matter,  and  any  royalties  Mrs. 
Thorpe  might  have  received  from  them  were  lost.  In  a  lawyer's  hands  it  is 
possible  something  might  have  been  done,  but  there  were  too  many  other 
pressing  demands  being  made  upon  Mrs.  Thorpe's  time,  health,  and  scant  purse 
to  allow  this  thought  any  lodgement  in  her  mind. 

How  different  from  the  treatment  that  should  have  been  .accorded  her. 
The  Boston  publishers,  seeing  her  innocent  childlikeness,  should  have  protected 
her  in  her  rights;  have  given  her  the  information  needed  for  her  protection, 
and,  as  honorable  gentlemen,  shared  the  proceeds  with  her. 

This  is  what  one  English  publisher  did.  Some  friends,  who  had  been 
to  England,  brought  her  an  exquisitely  gotten-up  copy  of  her  poem,  bearing 
the  imprint  of  John  Walker,  of  London,  who,  doubtless,  had  gained  his  right 
to  publish  from  Lee  &  Shepard.  Mrs.  Thorpe  was  so  delighted  with  it  that 
she  sent  a  $5  bill  to  Mr.  Walker,  saying  she  had  no  idea  of  the  price,  but 
would  he  kindly  send  her  as  many  copies  as  this  amount  would  buy.  By  return 
mail  came  a  letter,  returning  her  money  and  saying  that  he  was  sending  her, 
with  his  compliments,  two  hundred  copies,  and  that  if  she  desired  more  she 
was  to  write  at  once  and  let  him  know.  These  were  copies  ranging  in  price 
from  $1.25  to  $4  each. 

Many  honors  have  come  to  the  poet  as  the  result  of  her  easily-gained 
fame,  none,  however,  pleasing  her  more  than  the  honorary  degree  of  Master 
of  Arts,  conferred  upon  her  by  one  of  the  fine  old  educational  institutions  of 
Michigan,  her  home  state  for  so  many  years.  The  degree  was  accompanied 
by  the  following  letter: 


CURFEW  MUST  NOT  RING  TO-NIGHT  17 

"HILLSDALE  COLLEGE, 
"HILLSDALE,  MICH.,  June  22,  1883. 
"MRS.  ROSE  HARTWICK  THORPE, 
"Grand  Rapids,  Mich. 

"Dear  Madam: 

"Allow  me  to  announce  to  you  that  upon  the  recommendation  of  the  fac 
ulty,  the  trustees  of  this  college  voted  unanimously  to  confer  upon  you  the 
honorary  degree  of  Master  of  Arts.  Hoping  that  the  author  of  "Curfew 
Must  Not  Ring  Tonight" — a  poem  which  will  never  allow  the  name  of  its 
author  to  die — will  accept  this  kindly  token  of  recognition,  I  am, 

"Sincerely  yours, 

"D.  W.  C.  DURGIN,  President." 

Like  all  other  popular  writers,  Mrs.  Thorpe  has  had  the  experience  of 
learning  many  things  from  the  newspapers  about  herself  that  were  not  so. 
For  instance,  she  says: 

A  very  interesting  and  flowery  article  on  my  school  life  at  Hillsdale  College, 
and  success  as  a  writer  at  the  time,  was  once  published  in  a  leading  Chicago  paper, 
with  so  vivid  and  realistic  a  description  of  my  beautiful  home  and  home-life  of 
luxury  and  indulgence,  that  the  reading  of  the  article  brought  tears  of  regret  into 
my  eyes;  regret  that  the  enchanting,  delightful  life  depicted  as  mine,  was  mine  only 
in  imagination.  I  was  never  a  student  at  Hillsdale  College. 

Year  by  year  added  to  the  fame  and  popularity  of  the  poem,  and  about 
two  years  before  the  great  World's  Fair  in  Chicago,  say  in  1891,  a  man 
appeared  at  Litchfield  who  seemed  to  have  plenty  of  leisure  and  money,  and 
nothing  much  to  do.  He  chatted  with  everybody  he  met,  but  didn't  seem  to 
be  much  interested  in  anything  until  the  names  of  the  Hartwicks,  or  Thorpes, 
or  Rose,  was  mentioned.  Then  he  was  wide-awake,  alert  and  intent.  He 
"said  nothing  to  nobody"  about  what  he  was  there  for,  but  on  several  occasions 
sought  out  Rose's  teacher  and  got  her  to  tell  him  all  she  could  recall  of  her 
pupil's  life.  Soon  afterwards  he  disappeared,  and  a  week  or  two  later  there 
appeared  in  the  New  York  Sun  several  columns  of  stories  of  the  life  of  the 
girlish  author  of  "Curfew."  Thus  her  fame  spread. 

This  also  led  to  another  honor  being  conferred  upon  her  which  Mrs. 
Thorpe  highly  prized.  The  women  of  Litchfield  were  much  elated  and 
delighted  at  the  notice  their  city  had  received  through  the  Sun  articles.  It  was 
also  good  for  business,  as  many  people  came  to  see  the  place  where  the  memor 
able  poem  was  born.  So  they  decided  to  be  represented  at  the  World's  Fair, 
and  they  chose  for  that  purpose  to  make  a  banner  representing  "Curfew"  and 
its  author.  When  Miss  Turrell,  the  secretary  of  the  Litchfield  committee, 
informed  Mrs.  Thorpe  of  this  fact,  she  received  a  letter  from  which  I  extract 
the  following: 

I  cannot  tell  you  how  this  graceful  recognition  from  my  dear  old  home  touches 
me.  Of  the  many  honors  conferred  upon  me  during  the  past  twelve  years,  there  is 
nothing  I  appreciate  more  than  this,  coming  as  it  does  from  the  friends  and  acquaint 
ances  of  my  girlhood  and  early  womanhood. 

The  banner  decided  upon  was  quite  an  expensive  affair,  made  of  silk  and 
gold  bullion,  etc.  It  was  to  cost  $300.  To  raise  this  money  the  women  of 
the  town  pinched  and  saved,  sold  now  a  dozen  eggs,  now  a  pound  of  butter,  yet 
when  the  time  for  placing  the  banner  arrived  they  were  still  $30  short  of  the 
$300  needed.  A  friend  advanced  the  money,  the  banner  was  made,  and  before 
the  fair  was  over  the  $30  was  raised  and  paid  back. 

At  the  close  of  the  fair  this  banner  was  sent  to  San  Diego,  and  the 
Woman's  Club  was  deputed  to  present  it  to  Mrs.  Thorpe.  This  interesting 


18  ROSE  HARTVVICK  THORPE  and  the  Story  of 

ceremony  took  place  in  her  home  in  the  presence  of  a  large  number  of  friends. 
The  president  of  the  club,  Mrs.  Riddell,  made  the  presentation  speech,  as 
follows : 

Never  in  all  the  history  of  the  world  has  more  honor  been  given  to  woman  than  in 
this  Columbian  year,  1893.  In  every'part  of  the  great  Exposition  woman  was  duly 
recognized.  From  the  ingenious  little  woman  artist  who  skillfully  molded  butter  into 
artistic  form  up  through  every  phase  of  highest  art  woman  has  had  her  representa 
tion  and  received  her  meed  of  praise.  From  the  highest  platform  a  "reform"  calling 
for  the  noblest  efforts  of  heart  and  brain  down  to  the  mere  accident  of  birth,  she 
has  had  her  representation  and  received  her  meed  of  praise.  In  short,  women  are 
making  history,  and  the  future  geqerations  will  scarcely  be  able  to  say  that  the  women 
of  this  year  were  honored  for  any  one  characteristic,  but  rather  that  the  world  was 
broad  enough  to  honor  all  women  and  each  for  the  best  effort  she  ever  made,  no  matter 
in  what  direction.  In  the  closing  of  this  historical  year,  in  the  hallowed  Christmas 
month  when  mothers  are  telling  the  precious  story  of  the  Christ  child,  it  is  well  for 
women  to  honor  their  own  sex. 

Some  years  ago,  a  slender  dark-eyed  girl  in  Litchfield,  Mich.,  wrote  upon  her 
slate  the  story  of  an  English  girl  saving  her  lover's  life.  The  story,  told  in  rhyme, 
has  lived,  and  many  a  loyal  impulse  has  been  stirred  to  life  by  the  pathos  of  its  lines. 

When  the  good  people  of  Litchfield  looked  about  them  for  something  to  repre 
sent  them  at  the  great  world's  fair  nothing  seemed  to  them  so  great  as  the  poem  of 
that  little  girl.  They  made  them  a  banner,  with  loving  hands,  and  draped  in  their 
Michigan  Building  at  the  world's  fair  it  told  its  story  of  loyalty,  earnestness  and  truth. 
They  forward  that  banner  to  us,  for  the  girl  is  to  a  woman  grown  and  lives  with  us. 
O,  poet  soul ! 

Small  wonder  is  it  that  you  should  drift  to  this  sunny  Southland,  and  on  one 
of  its  sunniest  slopes  build  you  a  home.  Warm  as  the  sun  shining  on  your  lemon  and 
vine  is  the  good  cheer  you  dispense  to  neighbor  and  friend.  Gentle  as  the  tempered 
wind  from  the  bay  is  the  influence  of  the  literature  that  flows  from  your  pen.  The 
Woman's  Club  of  San  Diego,  in  presenting  to  Rose  Hartwick  Thorpe  the  banner  from 
the  women  of  Michigan,  wish  to  add  this  tribute  to  her  fame:  No  word  she  has  ever 
spoken,  no  line  she  has  ever  written,  has  influenced  a  soul  for  ill. 

The  question  is  often  asked  as  to  whether  there  is  any  foundation  in 
history  for  the  poem.  Its  great  circulation  in  England  ultimately  brought  it 
to  the  attention  of  Queen  Victoria,  with  whom  it  became  a  favorite.  This 
fact,  in  itself,  was  enough  to  lead  important  and  learned  historians  to  desire 
to  investigate  and  find  out  whether  there  was  any  foundation  for  the  story.  I 
do  not  recall  the  name  of  the  eminent  historian  whose  researches  were  success 
ful.  He  found  that  the  main  events  actually  occurred  at  Chertsey,  some 
twenty  miles  from  London ;  the  church  still  standing  with  its  tower  and  bell  as 
it  had  been  for  hundreds  of  years.  The  son  of  the  Lord  of  the  Manor  was 
arrested  as  a  spy,  was  actually  condemned  to  death,  and  was  saved  by  the 
action  of  his  brave  affianced  who,  by  hanging  on  the  clapper  of  the  bell,  pre 
vented  Curfew  from  tolling  out  its  usual  evening  knell. 

What  matter  that  in  the  poem  the  youthful  author  followed  errors  of  the 
writer  of  the  story  and  made  the  steps  of  the  ladder  slimy  when  most  probably 
the  tower  had  its  own  stone  steps  and  they  were  dry  and  musty  rather  than 
wet  and  slimy?  What  though  Bessie  did  not  "swing  far  out"  over  the  city  so 
that  it  "seemed  a  tiny  speck  below"?  The  girlish  writer  did  instinctively  what 
many  a  great  and  famous  author  has  done  with  conscious  intent,  viz.,  violated 
the  facts  in  order  to  produce  the  mental  effect. 

What  though  the  critics  say  the  sexton,  even  though  deaf,  would  certainly 
have  known  that  no  sound  was  coming  from  the  bell  ?  What  though  we  openly 
confess,  "Of  course  he  would,  had  he  been  thinking  anything  about  it,  and  on 
the  alert,  listening,  to  see  whether  anything  was  the  matter!1'  But  he  was 
so  accustomed  to  the  ringing  of  the  bell  that  it  had  become  a  habit  to  which  he 
paid  absolutely  no  attention. 


CURFEW  MUST  NOT  RING  TO-NIGHT  19 

Then,  too,  the  critics  say  it  is  absurd  to  suppose  that  the  military  authori 
ties  would  have  meant  anything  other  than  that  Basil  should  die  at  the  hour 
of  Curfew,  and  that,  therefore,  the  ringing  of  the  bell  could  have  had  nothing 
whatever  to  do  with  the  carrying  out  of  the  order  of  execution.  Such  criticism 
reflects  the  psychology  of  the  critic,  in  that  he  applies  to  the  old  Puritan  mili 
tary  authorities  the  workings  of  his  own  mind.  To  him  "Curfew"  would 
mean  the  hour  of  Curfew,  whereas  to  them  it  meant  actually  what  it  said, 
"When  Curfew  rings  Underwood  dies!"  They  would  have  waited  until 
doomsday,  ere  they  would  have  carried  out  their  order,  unless  the  bell  had 
actually  rung.  Furthermore,  here  again  poetic  license  might  be  the  plea 
offered  in  justification,  and  what  Milton,  Shakespeare,  Dante,  Goethe,  Brown 
ing,  and  a  score  of  other  poets  had  done  without  apology,  may  well  be  allowed 
to  a  tyro  in  the  art. 

It  is  interesting  to  note  that  until  about  seven  years  ago  the  tower  and  bell 
of  Chertsey  Abbey  remained  as  they  had  been  for  centuries.  The  bell  is  dated 
"East  Circum,  A.  D.  1310,"  so  for  seven  hundred  years  it  has  given  forth  of 
its  warning  sounds.  Seven  years  ago,  however,  it  was  found  that  the  oaken 
timbers  which  supported  the  bell  were  giving  way,  and  it  was  decided  to 
replace  them.  An  enterprising  manufacturer  of  the  neighborhood  purchased 
the  decaying  timbers,  had  a  great  number  of  porcelain  bells  made,  imitative 
of  the  original  bell  and  bearing  the  inscription  "The  Chertsey  Abbey  or 
Curfew  Bell,"  and  the  date  line  above  given,  had  the  oak  made  into  clappers, 
and  then  sold  them  as  souvenirs.  Thousands  of  them  have  been  sold,  possibl 
hundreds  of  thousands,  for  the  poem  is  as  popular  as  household  words,  and 
here  is  the  irony  of  fate — this  maker  and  vendor  of  a  mere  souvenir,  for  whi 
there  never  would  have  been  the  slightest  demand  had  the  poem  not 
written,  has  made  more  money  out  of  its  sale  than  Mrs.  Thorpe  has  done  fr 
all  the  writing  of  her  active  and  busy  lifetime,  including  all  returns  from 
Curfew  poem  itself,  for  these,  as  I  have  explained  elsewhere,  have  been  purely 
nominal. 

From  the  parodies  written  upon  the  poem  one  might  quote  enough  to  fill 
a  book.  But  the  one  that  amused  Mrs.  Thorpe  more  than  any  other  came  as 
the  result  of  a  local  quarrel  over  crowing  roosters.  More  cities  than  one  have 
had  fights  over  the  question  of  allowing  people  to  keep  crowing  roosters  in 
residence  sections,  but  it  is  not  every  city  that  had  so  clever  a  parodist  as  this 
one.  He  wrote  verse  after  verse  recounting  the  irritations  caused  by  the 
crowing  roosters,  winding  up  each  stanza  with  the  emphatic  line : 

"Rooster  must  not  crow  tonight!" 

It  was  so  witty  and  forceful  that,  it  is  well  to  add,  it  won  the  day  for  the 
advocates  of  quietness. 

Then  it  was  used  in  other  "skits."  For  instance,  the  following  appeared 
in  the  New  York  Press  and  was  copied  all  over  the  country: 

HER    HAPPY   RUSE 
She  eyed  the  clock,  but  like  a  rock 

He  stayed  and  did  not  take  his  hat. 
Till  half  past  ten  he  sat,  and  then 
Still  sat  and  sat  and  sat  and  sat. 

At  last  she  stepped  upon  a  chair, 

And  said :    "Attend,  while  I  recite 
To  you,  while  you  are  sitting  there, 

'The    Curfew    Must    Not   Ring    Tonight.' " 


20  ROSA  HARTWICK  THORPE  and  the  Story  of 

He  shrank  as  if  before  a  blow; 

"Excuse  me,  please,"  he  tremblingly  said; 
"It's  getting  late — I've  got  to  go — " 

And  then  he  fled. 

As  before  related,  Rose  Hartwick  was  married  September  11,  1871,  to 
Edmund  Carson  Thorpe,  at  Litchfield,  Mich.,  where  they  spent  the  first  years 
of  their  wedded  life.  Three  children  were  born  to  them,  two,  a  girl  and  a 
boy,  dying  in  infancy,  and  another  daughter,  Lulo,  who  grew  up  into  healthy, 
happy  womanhood.  She  is  now  Mrs.  E.  Y.  Barnes,  and  lives  in  San  Diego, 
the  mother  of  three  children  who  are  the  darlings  of  their  grandmother's 
heart. 

Those  Litchfield  years  were  years  of  great  struggles,  hardships,  and  priva 
tions  to  the  young  couple.  Mr.  Thorpe  was  a  carriage-maker,  and  it  was  just 
at  the  time  when  firms  like  the  Studebakers,  and  the  makers  of  the  Columbus 
buggies,  were  taking  all  the  business  in  this  line  by  their  new  methods  of 
copperative  workmanship.  This  fact  will  help  make  clear  what  follows  later 
in  my  narrative. 

The  question  is  often  asked  whether  Mrs.  Thorpe  has  written  anything 
more  than  "Curfew."  This  question,  in  itself,  demonstrates  how  fickle  and 
transient  a  thing  is  fame.  Because  of  its  popular  and  universal  appeal  "Cur 
few"  made  friends  all  over  the  world.  It  happened  to  strike  the  responsive 
chords  of  the  human  heart.  Had  it  not  been  for  this  one  poem  all  the  rest  of 
her  work  would  have  passed  as  that  of  most  writers  do,  unnoticed  and 
unknown.  Had  she  possessed  the  commercial  instinct  this  one  poem  would 
have  made  her  a  rich  woman.  She  would  have  copyrighted  it;  secured  large 
royalties  from  its  sale  in  this  country  and  England,  and  in  every  country  else 
where  into  whose  language  it  was  translated.  Then,  when  moving  picture 
companies  wished  to  use  it  she  would  have  demanded — and  secured — royalties 
there,  and  finally,  she  would  have  commercialized  her  fame  as  a  writer,  and 
secured  other  commissions  for  poems  at  a  high  price.  Yet  not  one  of  these 
things  did  she  do.  Here  is  her  own  story  as  to  how  she  "broke  into"  the 
general  literary  field.  She  begins  it  with  a  "confession"  and  an  "apology," 
which  show  how  she  was  influenced  by  the  thought  of  the  people  around  her : 

The  resolve  to  conquer  my  troublesome  inheritance  was  not  confined  to  my 
girlhood  days;  after  I  became  a  wife  and  mother  the  old  battle  was  fought  over  many 
times,  while  the  cravings  of  intellectual  hunger  remained  unsatisfied  or  feasted  at 
rare  intervals,  that  I  might  vie  with  my  neighbors  as  an  exemplary  housekeeper.  I 
made  few  calls,  consequently  the  time  that  others  spent  in  social  intercourse  was  my 
opportunity  to  become  acquainted  with  both  authors  and  their  works.  It  was  not 
accounted  an  unpardonable  sin  for  a  woman  to  read  in  that  little  country  town;  but 
writing  savored  of  the  "blue-stocking."  Not  altogether  inexcusable  in  a  girl,  but  the 
wife  and  mother  who  took  her  pen,  except  in  letter  correspondence,  received  severe 
condemnation  from  her  acquaintances.  Sometimes  when  I  had  accomplished  an 
unusual  amount  of  housework  during  the  day,  when  the  little  ones  were  "tucked  in 
bed"  at  night,  I  felt  that  I  had  earned  an  hour's  companionship  with  my  pen,  but  think 
how  the  weary  body  must  have  influenced  the  brain,  and  is  it  a  wonder  that  I  did  so 
little  really  acceptable  work  during  those  long  years?  Once  during  that  time  of 
unsatisfactory  struggle  of  duty  against  inclination,  a  little  woman  having  ascertained 
where  to  find  me,  came  to  me  from  the  great  world  beyond;  the  world  that  admired 
my  poem  extravagantly,  it  seemed  to  me.  She  was  the  first  literary  person  I  had  ever 
met.  She  brought  into  my  quiet  life  busy  whiffs  of  my  own  enchanted  dreams.  She 
held  the  door  of  "my  paradise"  ajar,  and  revealed  to  me  possibilities  of  the  future; 
how  I  might  assist  my  dear  husband  more  effectually  than  by  doing  a  servant's 
drudgery.  The  week  after  she  left  me  I  sent  a  poem  to  the  Youth's  Companion,  and 
received  my  first  check  from  the  publishers.  With  all  of  her  persuasions  to  the  con 
trary,  I  considered  it  presumptuous  for  me  to  expect  remuneration  for  my  rhymes, 


CURFEW  MUST  NOT  RING  TO-NIGHT  21 

though  "Curfew"  had  been  popular  for  more  than  ten  years  and  in  two  continents. 
I  had  written  gratuitously  for  years,  but  not  until  then  had  I  received  any  reward 
for  my  labors. 

My  first  successful  venture  encouraged  me  to  try  again,  and  in  a  short  time 
I  had  received  checks  from  St.  Nicholas,  Wide  Awake,  the  Detroit  Free  Press,  and 
several  other  publications  that  found  my  poems  available.  They  seemed  like  little 
fortunes  to  us,  those  "fives"  and  "tens"  dropped  into  our  tired,  hard-working  lives. 

The  full  story  of  the  sending  out  of  that  first  poem  has  never  yet  been 
told.  Here  it  is.  Their  residence  was  above  the  carriage  factory.  Her 
daughter  was  then  about  six  years  old  and  Mrs.  Thorpe  had  her  to  care  for, 
and  a  husband  who  was  far  from  well,  overworked  and  poor,  and  she  herself 
was  a  wreck  physically.  Then  came  a  catastrophe.  Though  her  husband  was 
working  every  day  until  late  into  the  night,  a  stroke  of  ill  fortune,  coming  atop 
of  the  business  depression  referred  to,  made  them  lose  even  the  little  they  had. 
The  agony  of  mind  rendered  Mrs.  Thorpe  so  sick  that  she  became  an  invalid 
and  for  long,  weary  months  was  confined  to  her  bed.  During  most  of  this 
time  their  food  was  prepared  and  the  house  cared  for  as  well  as  it  could  be  by 
the  loving  faithfulness  and  brave  cheerfulness  of  the  six-year-old  daughter. 
For,  although  her  husband  was  far  from  well,  he  kept  resolutely  at  work,  doing 
the  best  he  could  to  preserve  a  little  business  from  the  wreck  that  seemed 
inevitable. 

As  the  mother  lay  there,  helpless,  upon  her  couch,  the  thought  came:  "I 
have  given  the  world  a  poem  it  has  enjoyed  and  delighted  in.  Never  a  cent 
has  come  to  me  from  it.  Now  I  am  in  need.  Never  has  my  mind  been  clearer 
than  it  is  today.  I'll  send  a  poem  to  an  editor,  then  put  it  up  to  God  as  to 
whether  we  are  to  be  forgotten,  and  wait  for  the  answer." 

Mrs.  Thorpe's  best  recollection  is  that  this  "test  poem"  was  sent  to  The 
Interior,  a  religious  weekly,  published  in  Chicago.  Then  she  sent  another  to 
St.  Nicholas,  and  still  another  to  The  Youth's  Companion,  and  she  fully 
decided  in  her  own  mind  that  any  return  from  any  one  of  these  three  poems 
she  would  regard  as  God's  voice  of  cheer,  comfort  and  encouragement.  The 
days  and  weeks  passed.  One  day,  as  she  lay  upon  her  couch,  in  pain  of  both 
body  and  mind,  wondering  why  no  reply  came  from  the  editors,  yet  still  hoping 
that  God  had  not  forsaken  them,  she  heard  the  downstairs  door  slam,  and 
someone  coming  tearing  up  the  stairs  at  great  speed.  It  was  her  husband.  He 
dropped  down  beside  her  and  said:  "I  have  something  that  will  make  you 
happy,"  at  the  same  time  handing  her  an  opened  envelope  from  the  Chicago 
editor,  containing  a  check  for  $2.00. 

"Thank  God!"  Mrs.  Thorpe  exclaimed.  "He  has  spoken.  We  can  get 
someone  to  help  us  for  two  weeks  with  this  two  dollars. 

The  same  day  came  another  check  for  $5.00,  from  New  York,  and  another 
from  Boston  for  $10.00.  Thus  her  prayers  were  answered,  and  courage  given 
to  work  ahead  in  the  literary  field.  More  poems  were  sent  out,  and  at  one 
time  there  was  sixty  dollars  in  the  treasury  that  came  all  at  once,  but  never, 
not  even  with  her  largest  check,  was  there  the  satisfaction  and  delight  that  she 
felt  with  that  first  check  for  two  dollars. 

But  while  she  was  doing  a  little  with  her  literary  work,  things  were 
growing  daily  worse  with  her  husband's  business,  and  in  1881  they  decided  to 
give  it  up  and  turn  the  whole  thing  over  to  their  creditors. 

Just  at  this  time  a  lady  writer  and  newspaper  reporter  from  Chicago 
called  upon  Mrs.  Thorpe  for  a  story,  and  learning  her  need,  urged  her  to  go 
to  that  city,  where  she  would  introduce  her  to  Fleming  H.  Revell,  a  rising 
bookseller  and  publisher. 


22  ROSE  HARTVVICK  THORPE  and  the  Story  of 

She  went,  and  when  the  two  were  leaving  the  office  Mr.  Revell  asked  her 
to  leave  some  of  the  stones  and  poems  she  had  brought  and  call  upon  him  the 
following  day.  Then,  having  maneuvered  to  get  the  reporter  out  of  hearing, 
he  whispered  to  Mrs.  Thorpe:  "Come  alone!" 

The  following  day  when  she  entered  the  store  (alone,  of  course),  the 
chief  clerk  met  her,  and  said :  "We  sat  in  the  office  until  ever  so  late  last  night 
reading  your  stories  and  crying  over  them  like  a  lot  of  children !" 

This  sounded  pleasing  to  Mrs.  Thorpe's  ears,  and  prepared  her  for  the 
kind  words  Mr.  Revell  poured  forth  upon  her  work.  He  engaged  her  then 
and  there  as  editor  and  writer  on  work  of  a  rather  unique  character.  Mr. 
Revell  was  a  young  man  then,  but  had  already  begun  to  show  the  genius  that 
has  since  enabled  him  to  build  up  so  large  a  business  as  he  now  controls.  It 
was  in  the  days  before  photo-engraving  had  come  into  use,  and  to  have  illustra 
tions  drawn  and  then  made  into  cuts  to  use  for  magazines  and  papers  was  an 
expensive  process,  impossible  to  any  publisher  unless  he  had  a  large  and  paying 
circulation.  In  England,  however,  several  popular  monthlies  were  able  to 
afford  these  luxuries.  Mr.  Revell  saw  in  these  an  opportunity  for  himself. 
He  succeeded  in  persuading  the  English  publishers  to  sell  him  electrotypes  of 
their  illustrations  and  send  them  over  to  him  each  month.  Many  of  the 
stories,  however,  were  altogether  unsuited  to  the  American  public.  He  decided, 
therefore,  to  seek  an  author  and  editor  who  had  imagination  enough  to  take 
these  illustrations  and  write  poems  and  stories  to  fit  them,  and  for  this  work 
his  choice  fell  upon  Mrs.  Thorpe.  The  proposition  was  made  to  her  and  she 
accepted  it. 

Not  a  high  literary  ideal,  perhaps,  the  critic  may  exclaim,  and  I  may 
candidly  agree  with  him.  Yet  that  does  not  imply  that  the  work  \vas  not 
worth  doing,  and  worth  doing  wrell.  It  called  for  a  high  order  of  ability  to 
enable  one  to  do  it  at  all.  So  Mrs.  Thorpe  became  the  editor  and  chief 
author  of  Temperance  Tales,  Well-Spring,  and  Words  of  Life,  all  of  them 
monthly  publications  devoted  to  the  causes  of  temperance,  the  home,  and 
Sunday  School.  In  her  case  it  was  "Needs  must  where  Necessity  drives." 
Necessity  in  the  form  of  a  sick  husband,  a  growing  child,  and  the  cares  of  a 
household  were  ever  driving  her.  Her  own  health  was  frail,  yet  she  had  to 
buckle  to,  take  the  reins  in  her  own  hands  and  keep  the  household  buggy  from 
disaster.  Day  after  day,  month  after  month,  after  caring  for  her  baby,  and 
her  sick  husband,  preparing  the  food  and  doing  the  housework,  she  turned  to 
her  writing.  Under  these  adverse  conditions  she  did  her  editorial  work,  and 
later  wrote  twelve  serials  for  Golden  Days,  a  periodical  for  young  people 
published  in  Philadelphia. 

While  she  was  living  in  Chicago  she  had  an  interesting  experience.  At 
this  time  Judge  Albion  W.  Tourgee,  who  wrote  the  famous  book,  Bricks 
Without  Straw,  was  publishing  a  monthly  periodical  called  Our  Continent. 
Mrs.  Thorpe  and  Tourgee  were  good  friends,  and  she  was  a  regular  contribu 
tor  to  his  magazine.  One  day  she  sent  him  a  poem  entitled  "Wrecked." 
Immediately  there  came  a  letter  in  return,  to  the  effect  that  her  poem  had 
given  him  the  strangest  experience  of  his  whole  literary  life.  Said  he:  "I 
have  now,  in  type,  a  poem  entitled  "Wrecked,"  by  the  well-known  author, 
Rose  Hawthorne  Lathrop.  Your  titles  are  alike,  your  names  are  alike,  and 
the  poems  are  somewhat  alike." 

He  then  suggested  that  she  forward  her  poem  immediately  to  some  other 
editor  and  he  would  hold  back  the  publication  of  the  Lathrop  poem  for  a 


CURFEW  MUST  NOT  RING  TO-NIGHT  23 

while.      This  Mrs.  Thorpe  did,  and  in  due  time  received  a  check  from  the 
Youth's  Companion  for  her  poem. 

This  story  was  later  the  means  of  materially  aiding  a  struggling  writer. 
Mrs.  Thorpe  happened  to  tell  the  incidents  to  a  friend,  who  lived  in  the  East, 
and  with  whom  she  was  visiting.  Some  time  later,  the  Saturday  Evening 
Post  offered  a  prize  for  the  story  of  the  most  interesting  literary  experience. 
Seeing  this  announcement,  Mrs.  Thorpe's  friend  wrote  her,  asking  if  she  might 
use  the  story  and  begging  her  kindly  to  write  it  correctly  for  her.  This  was 
done,  the  story  entered  in  the  competition,  and  in  due  time  won  the  prize. 

For  two  years  Mrs.  Thorpe  remained  in  Chicago  doing  her  editorial  work. 
Then  her  husband  decided  to  remove  to  Grand  Rapids,  Mich.,  where  a  busi 
ness  opening  appeared.  She  then  gave  up  the  editorial  work,  but  still  con 
tinued  to  write  stories  and  poems  for  the  illustrations  sent  to  her.  While  this 
work  was  not  highly  remunerative,  it  was  certain,  and  this  meant  a  great  deal 
to  a  shrinking,  timid  person.  For,  in  speaking  of  her  non-success  as  an  author 
from  the  financial  side,  she  says: 

My  financial  success  as  an  author  has  not  been  great,  due,  perhaps,  in  a  measure, 
to  my  lack  of  confidence  in  my  ability  to  write  for  the  best  paying  publications.  My 
pen  brought  me  several  hundred  dollars  yearly  before  my  health  failed,  but  very  little 
of  the  work  was  purchased  by  the  most  popular  publications,  owing  to  my  extreme 
sensitiveness  in  submitting  my  articles  to  them.  I  knew  where  the  work  would  be 
available,  though  poorly  remunerated,  and  to  such  publications  it  was  sent.  There 
was  a  time  when  a  returned  manuscript  found  its  way  immediately  into  the  grate,  as 
unworthy  of  further  consideration,  but  I  have  learned  better  than  that  these  later 
years.  Often  the  rejected  manuscript  of  one  publication  has  been  the  most  available 
at  another,  and  gained  the  greatest  popularity  afterwards. 

To  illustrate  this  point,  Mrs.  Thorpe  told  me  the  following  occurrence. 
She  said :  "I  sent  a  short  story  once  to  a  Philadelphia  publisher.  He  returned 
it  with  a  curt  note  in  his  own  handwriting.  (There  were  no  typewriters  in 
those  days,  and  I  knew  his  penmanship.)  I  felt  it  was  a  good  story  and  could 
not  understand  his  curt  rejection,  and  I  am  free  to  confess  it  hurt  me,  for  he 
had  published  several  of  my  stories  and  had  earnestly  asked  for  more.  Under 
the  lash  of  my  indignation  I  sent  the  story  to  a  publisher  across  the  street.  In 
due  time  there  came  a  letter  of  acceptance,  but  no  check.  When  the  check  did 
come  it  was  from  the  publisher  who  had  rejected  the  story,  and  not  from  the 
one  who  had  accepted  it.  A  letter  that  followed  the  check  explained  that  they 
had  bought  out  the  firm  across  the  street,  and  finding  an  accepted  story  from 
her,  not  yet  paid  for,  they  had  read  it,  found  it  most  charming,  and  were  glad 
to  forward  payment  for  it." 

In  writing  of  this  experience,  Mrs.  Thorpe  remarked : 

This  was  something  of  a  surprise  to  me.  It  is  only  one  of  the  many  peculiar 
experiences  of  any  author's  life  provmg  conclusively  that  one  person's  judgment  of 
an  article  has  little  to  do  with  its  liteFary  merit  (and  Mrs.  Thorpe  might  have  said, 
its  popular  appeal).  The  same  may  be  said  of  critics.  One  condemns  what  another 
approves.  The  song  which  captivates  most  hearts  is  not  the  scholar's  studied  produc 
tion,  crammed  with  superior  wisdom,  burdened  with  immense  words,  the  language  of 
which  does  not  portray  immensity  of  thought,  but  those  simple  heart  touches,  like  the 
spontaneous  warble  of  birds,  which  stoop  to  kiss  away  our  tears;  which  join  hands 
with  us  in  our  wanderings,  and  echo  our  every  joy  and  sorrow.  To  accomplish  the 
most  acceptable  public  work,  one  must  not  be  "swayed  about"  by  censure  or  praise, 
other  than  "to  see  oursels  as  ithers  see  us,"  may  assist  in  the  correction  of  our  acknowl 
edged  faults. 

The  Thorpes  did  not  stay  long  in  Michigan,  for  tuberculosis  seized  Mr. 
Thorpe  and  his  physician  urged  an  immediate  move  to  San  Antonio,  Texas. 
Here  they  resided  for  about  four  years,  and  they  both  rejoiced  in  the  perfect 


ROSA  HARTWICK  THORPE  and  the  Story  of 

and  complete  recovery  of  Mr.  Thorpe's  health.  He  secured  a  position  on  the 
railroad  that  kept  him  out  of  doors  almost  the  entire  day,  and  this  hastened 
his  recovery. 

An  interviewer,  during  her  residence  in  Texas,  thus  describes  Mrs, 
1  horpe :  i 

In  person  she  is  very  tall,  straight  and  slender,  of  a  decided  brunette  type,  and 
while  the  pallor  of  her  complexion  betrays  delicate  health,  increased  probably  by 
literary  toil,  the  bright  glance  of  her  large  dark  eves  expresses  a  high  degree  of 
intellectual  activity.  Her  manners  are  genial  to  a  marked  degree,  and  not  even  the 
olt-repeated  infliction  of  the  too-inquisitive  interviewer  affects  the  equanimitv  of  her 
temper. 

Unfortunately,  while  the  San  Antonio  climate  had  restored  Mr.  Thorpe 
to  health,  the  moist  heat  of  the  Texas  summers  was  unsuited  to  Mrs.  Thorpe. 
Yet  she  wrote  many  interesting  poems  during  her  sojourn  here,  one  of  them, 
Remember  the  Alamo,"  often  being  recited  and  quoted,  and  another  beauti 
fully  setting  forth  the  floral  treasures  of  the  State : 

TEXAS    FLOWERS 

These  are  the  flowers  of  Texas, 

When  Spring,  of  fabled  renown, 

Shakes  her  golden  tresses  down, 
And   lavishly  scatters  her  treasures 

Over  fields  and  meadows  brown. 
Sweet  little  Poppies  in  pink  and  white, 
Flapping  their  wide  rimmed  caps; 
Demure  mother  Lark-Spurs,  holding  tight 

The  wee  bud  Spurs  in  their  laps; 
Shy  faced  Verbenas  in  lavender; 

Rain  Lilies,  so  prim   and  fair; 
The  blossom  fairies  are  all  astir, 

And  Roses  bloom   everywhere. 
These  are  the  Texas  blossoms, 

When    Nature's   heart   throbs   and   beats 

With  her  glad  pulsating  sweets, 
That  burst  into  bloom  by  the  wayside, 

And  crowd  in  the  city  streets ; 
Pretty  post-oak  Pinks  in  scarlet  gowns, 

Tall    Yucca,    a   waxen   tower; 
Primroses  casting   their   yellow   crowns 

At  the  feet  of  the  Passion  Flower; 
Blue    Bonnets    stand    in    the    Pomegranate    lane, 

While  the  mountains,  stern  and  bare, 
With  Cactus  blossoms  are  all  aflame, 

For  the  flowers  are  everywhere. 

Again  they  were  compelled  to  move,  and  this  time  it  was  to  San  Diego, 
California.  From  a  letter  written  to  a  San  Antonio  paper,  dated  September 
4,  1887,  we  learn  some  interesting  impressions  of  the  City  of  the  Silver  Gate. 
Mrs.  Thorpe  said : 

We  feel  confident  that  we  shall  regain  our  lost  health  here.  We  were  favored 
with  a  most  delightful  journey,  the  previous  rains  had  cooled  the  atmosphere  and  at 
no  place,  not  even  while  crossing  the  great  desert  after  leaving  Yuma,  did  we  suffer 
with  the  heat  as  at  San  Antonio.  We  were  informed  by  the  train  conductor  that  we 
had  an  unusually  cool  and  pleasant  day  for  the  journey  across  the  desert.  At  Colton, 
California,  we  were  obliged  to  put  on  heavy  merino  underwear  and  thicker  clothes 
generally.  We  are  now  dressed  as  we  would  dress  for  winter  there.  The  air  is 
soft,  balmy,  and  cool.  The  days  are  all  like  the  loveliest  of  the  whole  San  Antonio 
year,  and  we  are  told  by  old  residents  that  they  are  a  fair  sample  of  the  three  hundred 
and  sixty-five  days  which  make  up  the  San  Diego  year.  De  were  favored  with 
many  solemn  prophetic  warnings  against  the  health-destroying  fogs  of  this  coast  city 
before  coming  here.  We  have  sun  and  fogs.  We  dread  them  no  longer.  They 


CURFEW  MUST  NOT  RING  TO-NIGHT  25 

will  not  injure  the  weakest  lungs.  A  thin,  gray  mist  in  the  early  morning  through 
which  one  may  see  the  hills  three  miles  away,  and  which  lifts  from  eight  to  nine 
o'clock.  This  morning  at  seven  o'clock  the  sun  kissed  the  distant  hill  tops,  and  in  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  the  whole  country  and  rich  blue  water  beyond  was  bathed  in  its 
genial  warmth.  When  the  sun's  rays  pierce  the  hazy  fog-curtains  the  atmosphere  is 
as  dry  as  even  San  Antonio  can  boast  of.  The  beauty  of  scenery  and  advantages 
of  the  city  have  been  fully  explained  by  the  real  estate  men,  and  we  will  not  attempt 
to  compete  with  them  in  this  respect.  Their  statements,  according  to  our  judgment, 
have  not  been  overdrawn.  Men  of  ambition  and  energy  may  find  abundant  employ 
ments  here.  Gold  does  not  lie  in  the  streets  for  indigent  and  unworthy  hands  to  gather, 
but  there  is  work  for  those  who  are  willing  to  accept  of  it.  Labor  is  even  solicited, 
as  our  own  experience  can  prove.  Every  one  is  busy,  there  are  no  street  loungers. 
The  sparkling  eye,  the  elastic  step,  the  brisk  tone,  the  hurried  movements,  all  speak 
of  business  activity.  The  rush  and  bustle  are  bewildering  to  one  accustomed  to  a 
climate  of  siestas.  Have  seen  no  Mexicans  or  Indians  or  Negroes  since  our  arrival. 
They  may  be  here,  but  they  are  not  on  the  streets.  Judging  from  the  appearance  of 
things  here  one  might  venture  to  say  that  Americans  take  the  lead  in  all  things  pertain 
ing  to  San  Diego.  No  foreign  element  can  crowd  them  out  or  supersede  them.  There 
may  be  saloons;  there  certainly  is  real  estate.  It  is  the  latter  and  not  the  former 
which  thrusts  itself  upon  one's  notice.  There  is  no  room  or  place  for  indolence  here; 
enterprise  and  energy  soon  crowd  it  out,  when  it  is  at  liberty  to  return  to  other  places 
and  circulate  damaging  stories  of  the  place  which  did  not  support  it.  Whoever  can 
use  a  hammer  need  not  go  hungry  in  San  Diego.  Its  busy  ring  sounds  on  all  sides 
of  us  as  we  write.  It  echoes  from  hillside  and  valley,  and  elegant  homes  and  majestic 
business  blocks  and  warehouses  and  depots  and  vast  hotels  spring  up  beneath  its 
sturdy  blows.  A  little  more  than  two  years  ago  San  Diego  numbered  three  thousand 
inhabitants;  there  are  not  less  than  fifteen  thousand  today,  and  every  train  and  ocean 
steamer  coming  into  the  depot  or  the  harbor  come  loaded  with  new  arrivals.  Rents 
are  very  high.  Dry  goods  and  groceries  about  the  same  as  San  Antonio.  Fruits  and 
vegetables  exceedingly  cheap  and  fine. 

To  another  Eastern  paper  she  wrote  more  impressions  of  San  Diego,  in 
1887,  and  these  are  worth  preserving: 

We  have  seen  the  snow  in  all  its  sparkling  beauty  on  the  hills  of  Michigan;  have 
sweltered  under  the  tropical  skies  of  Southern  Texas;  have  experienced  the  blizzards 
of  the  North  and  the  "red-bugs"  of  the  South ;  have  been  parched  and  frozen  by  turns, 
and  we  now  conclude  that  when  God  placed  Adam  upon  the  earth  in  its  most  favored 
spot,  that  spot  was  San  Diego,  California.  Not  for  its  beauty  of  scenery,  especially 
though  where  in  all  the  earth  has  Nature  unveiled  such  glorious  panoramic  views  as 
spread  out  before  the  delighted  gaze  from  Coronado  Beach,  Florence  Heights,  or  any 
of  the  numerous  elevations  about  the  city,  lying  as  it  does  between  the  mountains 
and  the  ocean.  Not  for  its  wealth  of  scenic  display  would  this  seejn  to  have  been 
the  chosen  location  for  that  "earthly  paradise,"  but  for  its  perfection  of  climate.  No 
cold-breathed  "northers"  sweep  across  its  hills,  no  frost  blights  its  tender  plants,  no 
fervid  heat.  One  glad  perpetual  Spring  expanding  and  perfecting  into  Summer, 
wearing  the  somber  tints  of  Autumn,  but  never  the  icy  winding  sheet  of  Winter.  Such 
is  the  climate  that  is  luring  all  peoples  to  seek  a  home  in  this  "Eden  of  America." 
Lying  on  the  sparkling,  sunlit  bay,  with  the  grand  old  ocean  just  beyond,  with  a 
harbor  of  unrivalled  excellence,  San  Diego  is  destined  to  become  a  metropolis  in  the 
near  future.  With  all  the  grandeur  of  its  ocean  views  it  escapes  much  of  the  annoy 
ance  of  those  dense  fogs  which  visit  other  coast  cities.  With  bold  Point  Loma  on 
the  West  and  North,  like  a  gigantic  arm  thrust  out  in  to  the  ocean,  a  wall  of  protection 
and  defense  for  the  city  at  its  base,  shielding  it  from  the  fierce  north  winds  and 
holding  the  fogs  at  bay.  Beyond  those  highlands  the  fogs  may  be  seen  rising  in  dense 
clouds  and  darkening  the  far-off  sky,  while  the  city  basks  in  the  warmth  of  genial 
sunshine.  To  be  sure  some  of  the  fogs  reach  us,  but,  at  most,  they  are  only  a  thin 
mist  soon  pierced  and  lifted  by  the  warm  sun  rays. 

Mrs.  Thorpe  has  lived  long  enough  in  San  Diego  to  see  many  of  her 
prophecies  and  hopes  come  true.  This  enterprising  City  of  the  Silver  Gate, 
whose  Harbor  of  the  Sun  is  the  first  port  of  call  on  the  United  States'  western 
coast  for  vessels  coming  through  the  Panama  Canal,  has  just  concluded  its 
successful  run  of  a  great  International  Exposition  for  two  years — a  feat  never 
before  attempted,  I  believe,  by  any  city  in  the  world.  She  has  seen  its  popu- 


26  ROSE  HARTWICK  THORPE  and  the  Story  of 

lation  increase  to  over  a  hundred  thousand ;  a  railroad  almost  completed,  giving 
it  direct  Eastern  railway  communication ;  the  desert  region  of  its  "back  coun 
try"  converted  by  means  of  the  waters  of  the  Colorado  River  into  the  agricul 
tural  marvel  of  the  world — the  Imperial  Valley;  its  equable  climate  so 
recognized  that  both  the  Government  and  the  Curtiss  Aviation  Schools  are 
firmly  and  permanently  established  there.  She  has  seen  the  great  and  beautiful 
buildings  of  the  Headquarters  of  the  Universal  Brotherhood  and  Theosophical 
Society,  under  the  guidance  of  Katherine  Tingley,  rise  into  oriental  glory,  and 
surrounded  by  a  flower  garden  and  planted  forest  scarce  equalled  in  the  world. 
Here,  too,  Madame  Tingley  built  the  first  open-air  California  Theater,  rival 
ing  in  native  attractions  any  one  of  the  open-air  theaters  of  Ancient  Greece. 
She  has  seen  one  of  the  colossal  hotels  of  modern  civilization — Hotel  Del 
Coronado — rise  above  the  sands,  facing  the  Pacific;  an  open-air  stadium  built 
for  the  people  of  San  Diego,  capable  of  seating  nearly  forty  thousand  people ; 
and  the  only  open-air  organ  of  the  world  donated  to  its  people  by  one  of  its 
most  enterprising  citizens,  John  D.  Spreckles.  And  she  has  loved  the  city  the 
while, — as  why  should  she  not?  Her  own  health  perfectly  restored,  her  hus 
band  in  good  health,  and  a  fair  degree  of  business  prosperity  given  to  them. 
Her  husband's  years  of  training  and  experience  as  a  carriage-maker  had  made 
him  skillful  in  the  use  of  tools,  and  as  the  "boom"  was  on  when  he  arrived  in 
San  Diego,  he  found  good-paying  work  from  the  start.  His  practice  in  design 
ing  carriages  made  him  almost  a  natural  architect  from  the  beginning  of  his 
attempts,  and  with  the  aid  of  his  wife  he  planned  some  of  the  finest  houses 
of  the  earlier  modern  San  Diego.  He  then  contracted  and  built  them.  Pacific 
Beach,  a  suburb  of  San  Diego,  was  their  residence  for  several  years,  and  also 
the  charming  La  Jolla-by-the-Sea,  and  in  both  of  these  places  there  are  many 
houses  of  his  planning  and  erection.  He  was  elected  to  the  City  Council, 
which  position  he  held  for  five  years,  and  could  have  remained  in  office  almost 
at  will,  so  highly  was  he  esteemed  by  his  fellow-citizens. 

After  many  years  of  happiness  together,  the  call  for  separation  came  quite 
suddenly.  On  Thursday,  November  16,  1916,  Mrs.  Thorpe  left  her  husband 
on  the  street,  in  his  automobile,  to  go  to  the  Joaquin  Miller  Day  celebration  at 
the  Exposition,  in  order  to  meet  Miss  Juanita  Miller,  the  daughter  of  the  poet. 
Less  than  half  an  hour  afterwards  she  was  called  home  to  find  her  beloved 
companion  had  already  "crossed  the  bar"  and  had  met  his  Pilot  "face  to  face." 
it  was  one  of  his  great  joys  that  the  Exposition  had  honored  his  wife  by 
naming  a  Day  for  her,  and  he  was  anticipating  its  ceremonies  writh  pleasure. 

He,  personally,  had  considerable  literary  ability,  which,  had  he  cared  to 
cultivate  it,  would  have  made  him  famous.  He  had  a  special  penchant  for 
writing  the  broken  English  of  a  Dutchman,  and  some  of  his  lubrications  are 
decidedly  clever.  For  instance,  here  are  his  lines  on 

DOT    BACIFIC    PEACH    FLEA 

Oh,  dot  flea,  dot  flea, 
Dot  schump-buggery  flea, 

Vot  schumps  und  viggles  und  bites, 
He  skips  von  side  oop, 
Und  der  under  side  down, 

Und  keepen  me  avake  effry  nights. 


CURFEW  MUST  NOT  RING  TO-NIGHT  27 

He  climbs  on  der  ped, 
Und  stands  on  hees  head, 

Und  cuts  oop  all  manner  ouf  pranks, 
Und  ven  I  got  oop, 
Dot  pooger  to  schoop, 

Mine  vrow,  she  calls  me  some  cranks. 

Right  avay,  pooty  qvick, 
I  vas  schleeping  so  schlick, 

As  schoost  never  vas,  maypee, 
Und   mine  vrow  she  schump   oud, 
Und  vent  schlappin  apoud, 

Und  I  dinks  her  vas  gotten  dot  flea. 

After  her  arrival  in  California,  for  a  while  Mrs.  Thorpe  did  little  writing, 
until  a  burden  came  upon  her.  Her  father  became  very  ill,  indeed  lost  his 
mind  for  a  time ;  at  the  same  time  a  friend  died  and  left  her  young  daughter  in 
Mrs.  Thorpe's  care.  The  child  had  been  almost  untrained,  and  the  duty  of 
disciplining  her  and  at  the  same  time  raising  enough  money  to  give  her  beloved 
father  the  care  he  needed,  while  attending  to  her  own  household  and  still  not 
too  strong  husband,  were  not  aids  to  great  literary  endeavor.  Yet  she  bravely 
started  in  and  wrote  a  story  of  California  life,  which  was  published  in  the 
Happy  Days  of  Philadelphia. 

In  addition  she  wrote  several  descriptive  poems,  setting  forth  the  charms 
of  the  region,  several  of  which  are  herewith  reproduced : 

MISSION    BAY 

Beyond  the  bay  the  city  lies, 

White-walled  beneath  the  azure  skies, 

So  far  remote,  no  sounds  of  it 

Across  the  peaceful  waters  flit. 

I  watch  its  gleaming  lights  flash  out, 

When  tw^ight  girds  herself  about 

With  ocean   damps.     When   her  dusk  hair 

Wide-spread  fills  all  the  salt  sea  air, 

And  her  slow  feet, 
Among  the  fragrant  hillside  shrubs, 

Stirs  odors  sweet. 

Fair  Mission  Bay, 

Now  blue,  now  gray, 
Now  flushed  by  sunset's  after  glow, 
Thy  rose  hues  take  the  tint  of  fawn 
At  dawn  of  dusk  and  dusk  of  da  wn. 

On  another  occasion  she  wrote  of  the  same  bay : 

MISSION  BAY 

God's  placid  mirror,  Heaven  crowned, 
Framed  in  the  brown  hills  circling  round 
Not  envious  that  thy  sister  can 
More  fully  meet  the  needs  of  man, 
Nor  jealous  that  her  broader  breast 
Is  sacrificed  at  man's  request, 
While  in  the  shelter  of  her  arm 
The  storm-tossed   resteth  safe  from  harm. 


28  ROSA  HARTWICK  THORPE  and  the  Story  of 

This  thy  grand  mission,  Mission  Bay — 
To   smile   serene   through   blue   or  gray; 
To  take  whatever  God  has  sent, 
And  teach  mankind  full  content. 
Low  swaying  pepper  boughs;  blooms  of  magnolia; 
Summer  and  sunshine,   and   roses  galore; 
Song  of  the  mocking  bird, 
Morning  and  evening  heard; 
Murmurous  waves  breaking  white  on  the  shore. 

Fogs  marching  up  from  the  breast  of  the  ocean; 
Languorous  moons  sailing  into  the  west; 

Fruitage  of  tree  and  vine, 

All  the  year  summer  time; 
Harbor    of    safety,    and    haven    of    rest. 

The  glorious  flowers  of  California,  with  their  wonderful  profusion,  could 
not  fail  to  stimulate  such  an  imagination  as  hers,  and  here  is  her  poem  entitled : 

THE    CALIFORNIA    POPPY 

Flowers  of  the  West-land  with  calyx  of  gold, 

Swung  in  the  breeze  over  lace-woven  sod; 

Filled  to  the  brim  with  the  glory  of  God, 
All  that  its  wax-petaled  chalices  can  hold. 
This  was  the  birth  of  it.     On  the  brown  plain, 
The  sun  dropped  a  kiss  in  the  foot-prints  of  rain. 

In  addition  to  this  she  wrote  one  on  the  flowers  as  a  whole : 

HOW    THE    FLOWERS    CAME 

'Twas  seed  time  in  Heaven,  the  angel  whose  care 
Is  for  Eden's  blossoms:  that  angel  more  fair 
Than  all  her  fair  sisters,  twin  spirits  of  air, 

That  angel  whose  footsteps  wherever  they  tread, 

Spring  up  into  blossoms,  blue,  yellow  and  red; 
That  angel  whose  teardrops,  wherever  they  fall, 
Give  birth  to  white  lilies,  the  fairest  of  all ; 

That  angel  whose  breath  is  the  perfume  of  flowers, 

Had  spent  all  the  jewel-gemmed,  paradise  hours 
Of  the  roseate  morn  where  beauties  unfold 
In  calyx  of  crimson  and  purple  and  gold. 
Beside  the  great  portals  she  paused  and  looked  through, 
Down,  down  the  vast  distance,  of  star-lighted  blue, 

Beheld  the  gray  rocks,  without  beauty  or  bloom, 

And  sighed  for  earth's  children  away  in  the  gloom. 
"No  beauty  or  bloom  hath  the  children  of  woe; 
No  brightness;  no  sweetness;  my  hand  will  bestow 
One  heaven-born  seed  for  their  garden  below," 

She  said  as  she  loosened  her  girdle  to  find 

One  seed  which  was  fairest,  and  best  of  its  kind. 
Her  eager  hand  trembled,  the  girdle  slipped  through 
Her  rosy-tipped  fingers,  and  down  through  the  blue, 
Down,  down  the  vast  distance,  her  golden  seeds  flew. 

Some  caught  in  the  crevice  of  rocks,  others  fell 

In  lone  desert  places,  by  wayside  and  dell ; 
On  hills  and  in  valleys;  in  forest  and  glen, 
To  gladden  and  brighten  the  journeys  of  men. 

At  the  portals  of  heaven,  with  sorrowful  face, 

The  little  flow'r  angel  looks  out  into  space, 
In  search  of  her  treasures.     Her  tears,  as  they  fall, 
Find  all  her  lost  seedlings,  and  water  them  all. 


CURFEW  MUST  NOT  RING  TO-NIGHT  29 

Here  is  her  trustful  EASTER  SONG: 

Awaken,  sweet  flowers! 

The  snow  in  the  valley  has  melted  at  last, 
And  the  desolate  sights  of  the  year  is  past; 
The  ice  chains  are  broken,  and  robins  are  singing — 
Awake  to  the  call  of  the  Easter  bells  ringing; 

Awaken,  O  heart! 

In  bondage  of  sin  thou  hast  slumbered  so  long, 
Arise  in  the  beauty  and  rapture  of  song, 
Arise  in  the  gladness  of  nature's  adorning — 
Come  forth  in  thy  strength  on  this  glad 

Easter  morning. 

Though  a  member  of  one  of  the  so-called  old  orthodox  churches,  she  has  a 
broad  outlook  upon  life.  As  I  have  shown,  she  is  a  strong  and  ardent  advocate 
for  prohibition  and  woman's  suffrage,  and  her  religious  views  are  broad  and 
tolerant.  She  has  a  growing  and  enlarging  faith  in  the  goodness  of  God.  She 
feels  that  life's  problems  all  disappear  as  we  lose  fear  and  are  able  to  rest  abso 
lutely  upon  the  promises  of  God.  One  of  the  poems  that  expresses  her  relig 
ious  feeling  she  entitled  "His  Second  Coming."  This  was  written  long  before 
she  had  heard  of  Mrs.  Mary  Baker  G.  Eddy  or  Christian  Science.  Long 
afterwards  a  Scientist  desired  a  copy,  which  was  given,  and  it  was  published  in 
the  Christian  Science  Journal.  Soon  afterwards  a  friend  attended  a  Christian 
Science  lecture  in  Chicago,  where  an  audience  of  many  thousands  was  assem 
bled.  After  delivering  a  soul-stirring  and  eloquent  address  the  lecturer  closed 
with  the  last  stanza  of  this  poem : 

And  all  the  world  over,  the  people 

Are  spreading  the  blessing  abroad, 
Are  cleansing  the  depth  of  the  fountain, 
Are  climbing  the  heights  of  the  mountain, 

Are  waiting  the  coming  of  God! 

In  1912  all  her  poems  were  gathered  together  in  one  handsome  volume, 
and  issued  by  the  Neale  Publishing  Co.  of  New  York. 

Since  then  she  has  written  but  little,  though  on  occasion  a  poem  has  come 
from  her  pen,  as,  for  instance,  when,  at  the  Michigan  Day  exercises  at  the 
Panama-Pacific  Exposition,  held  in  Festival  Hall,  Mrs.  Thorpe  was  one  of 
the  most  honored  of  the  great  State's  guests.  At  that  time  she  read  the 
following : 

With  face  looking  full  in  the  face  of  the  sun ; 

With  breath  of  the  pines,  and  the  lilac  new  blown, 

Our  Michigan  sits  like  a  queen  on  the  throne 

Where  true  worth  has  placed  her.     Her  laurels  all  won 

By  patient  endeavor  through  wearisome  years ; 

By  slow,  but  sure  progress;  hope  conquering  fears. 

No  indolent  child  of  the  tropics  is  she, 

But  strong  as  the  North  winds  that  sweep  o'er  her  breast, 

She  garners  new  strength  through  ambitious  unrest. 

With  muscles  firm-fashioped,  heart  loyal  and  free, 

She  sits  in  her  daisy-decked  mantle  of  state, 

A  sea  at  her  Eastern  and  Wester'most  gate. 

Where  Pontiac  fought  for  his  people's  birthright, 
Grand  forests  have  bowed,  mighty  waters  have  spanned ; 
The  elk,  beaver  and  deer  deserted  the  land 
When   Civilization   advanced   in   her  might. 
The  Wigwam  has  vanished  and  Temples  of  Art, 
Like  blossoms  have  grown  out  of  Michigan's  heart. 


30  ROSE  HARTWICK  THORPE  and  the  Story  of 

Long  past  are  her  venturesome  days  of  romance; 
Her   cowslip-grown   marshes    are   meadows   of   grain; 
Her  orchards  are  countless  on  hillside  and  plain. 
From  log  hut  to  mansion  her  dwellings  advance, 
With  churches  magnificent,  schools  at  the  van ; 
Abreast  of  the  times  is  our  own  Michigan. 

To  the  needs  of  the  world  she  opens  her  breast, 

At  its  call  she  yields  the  rich  ore  of  her  mines. 

She  has  wealth  in  factories,  orchards  and  pines ; 

In  manifold  blessings,  abundantly  blest, 

Successively  crowned  with  snow-garlands  and  flowers, 

What  State  can  excel  her,  this  mother  of  ours? 

We  have  come  to  the  land  where  the  sun  goes  down; 
Where  a  continent  bends  to  the  kiss  of  the  sea ; 
Where  Winters  are  verdant  and  Summers  are  brown, 
We  bask  in  its  sunshine;  but  loyal  are  we 
To  Michigan,  home  of  our  childhood  afar, 
All  honor  to  her  for  the  best  that  we  are. 

One  has  but  to  look  at  her  face  to  see  that  she  is  essentially  a  dreamer. 
Though  a  grandmother,  there  is  the  same  preoccupation  often  revealed  in  her 
eyes  that  led  her  to  write  Curfew  rather  than  her  lessons.  Indeed  she  often 
laughingly  comments  upon  this  feature  of  her  character.  She  says:  "I  know 
I'm  a  dreamer.  I  am  sure  to  forget  the  most  important  dish  whenever  I  have 
company  to  dinner,  and  then  I  get  so  embarrassed  that  I  do  worse  things." 

It  is  interesting  here  to  record  some  of  the  history  of  the  little  book  in 
which  "Curfew"  was  transcribed  with  the  pen.  For  many  years  it  was  lost 
and  practically  forgotten.  Then  one  day  some  friends  of  Mrs.  Thorpe  sent 
her  a  copy  of  the  Chicago  Interocean  in  which  was  the  account  of  the  finding, 
in  an  old  house  that  was  being  renovated,  of  a  trunk-full  of  children's  treas 
ures  and  old  yellow  papers,  among  them  a  book  full  of  written  verses,  one  of 
which  was  "Curfew,"  doubtless  in  the  handwriting  of  its  author.  It  was 
evident  to  Mrs.  Thorpe  that  this  was  her  long-lost  manuscript  book.  Immedi 
ately  she  wrote  to  the  lady  in  whose  possession  the  book  was  said  to  be,  offering 
to  buy  it  at  any  reasonable  price,  as  it  contained  the  treasures  of  her  girlhood. 
With  the  sweetest  spirit  imaginable  the  holder  of  the  book  sent  it  by  return 
mail,  saying  that  she  had  no  desire  to  receive  any  financial  emolument  from 
the  returning  of  a  treasured  book  to  its  original  owner ;  so  today  Mrs.  Thorpe 
is  happy  in  its  possession. 

This  book  is  now  before  me.  I  am  free  to  confess  I  should  like  to  quote 
many  little  things  from  it,  but  its  owner  is  rather  sensitive  about  her  early 
poetic  effusions.  It  ought  to  be  stated,  however,  that  this  book  was  supposed 
to  be  a  diary  which  Rose  was  to  write,  rather  than  a  repository  for  her  verses. 
The  diary,  however,  soon  proved  to  be  a  hollow  mockery,  and  the  book  was 
openly  given  up  to  nothing  but  verses  and  an  occasional  prose  composition. 
One  of  these  is  full  of  tender  thoughts  about  her  mother,  and  another,  written" 
on  her  sixteenth  birthday,  is  full  of  that  vague,  unsatisfied  something  that 
young  girls  so  often  feel.  She  looks  back,  too,  through  the  "long  bright  years 
of  her  childhood,"  and  also  forward  to  the  possible  joys  of  the  "dark  and  uncer 
tain  future."  Then,  a  little  later,  she  tells  of  a  visit  made  to  the  place  of  her 
birth,  which  she  had  not  seen  for  six  years.  That  she  had  the  poetic  tempera 
ment  none  can  deny  who  reads  this  tender  effusion,  though  he  may  not  keep 
back  the  smile  as  he  reads  of  the  "jentle  brease"  that  moved  the  tall  grass  "too 
and  froe"  in  the  churchyard  where  sleep  "many  who  sported  with  her  in  the 
long  ago."  One  composition,  dated  Sunday,  July  the  13th,  1866,  must  have 


CURFEW  MUST  NOT  RING  TO-NIGHT  31 

been  written  after  she  had  been  to  church,  where  the  preacher  drew  vivid  pic 
tures  of  an  innocent  child  yielding,  as  he  grew  older,  to  temptation  and  finally 
coming  to  a  sad  and  tragic  end.  It  is  entitled  "The  Two  Pictures,"  and  would 
outshine  many  a  young  cub  reporter's  first  attempts. 

The  effect  of  the  Civil  War  also  is  seen  in  warlike  poems :  One  entitled 
"Brothers'  Meeting,"  possessing  some  strong  lines,  as,  for  instance: 

Not  as  they  parted  met  they  now, 

No!     Stamped  upon  each  marble  brow, 

Bloodless  as  yet, 

Hate  shone,  and  in  their  angry  eyes 
Was  mingled  scorn,  disdain,  surprise, 
As  there,  beneath  the  broad  blue  skies, 

Those  brothers  met. 

Another  tells  of  a  maiden  who  seeks  her  lover  upon  the  battlefield.     One 
stanza  reads: 

He,  too,  was  there!  the  leader  and  his  band, 
And  their  blood  had  moistened  sod  and  sand, 
He  was  there !  but  the  light  from  his  eye  had  fled, 
And  the  one  she  had  sought  was  cold  and  dead: 
With  the  bloody  sword  in  his  hand  still  grasp'd 
And  the  flag  of  the  free  to  his  bosom  clasp'd. 

The  tragic  denouement  is  told  in  the  last  stanza,  as  follows : 

Down  by  the  side  of  the  dead  she  lay, 
The  living  cheek  to  the  cheek  of  clay. 
The  living  cheek?     No!  anguish  and  pain, 
Can  never  trouble  her  bosom  again. 
She  is  there  at  rest  by  her  warrior's  side, 
In  death  how   lovely — his  beautiful  bride. 

There  is  much  of  interest  and  illumination  in  these  pages  to  the  psycholo 
gist,  for  they  were  written  without  the  slightest  self-consciousness  behind  them. 
They  are  the  perfect  outpourings  of  a  maiden's  mind  and  reveal  her  as  she 
actually  wras. 

Now,  after  long  years  of  a  life  made  rich  and  beautiful  by  many  and 
varied  experiences,  she  rests  by  the  Harbor  of  the  Sun.  Her  home  is  on  a 
hillside,  near  the  top,  its  large  four-windowed  sun-porch  overlooking  one  of 
the  superlative  views  of  the  world.  Here  Mrs.  Thorpe  sits  and  reads,  medi 
tates,  writes  and  greets  her  friends.  Immediately  in  front,  shutting  out  the 
view  of  the  Pacific  Ocean,  is  the  irregular  but  bold  line  of  Point  Loma.  To 
its  right  a  tiny  glimpse  of  Mission  Bay  is  had,  while  Loma  Portal,  with  its 
wealth  of  new  and  elegant  residences,  followed  by  Rosedale,  La  Playa,  Fort 
Rosecranz,  and  the  glistening  domes  of  the  magnificent  temples  of  the  head 
quarters  of  the  Theosophical  Society  and  Universal  Brotherhood,  the  towers 
of  the  Federal  Wireless  Station,  and  the  old  Lighthouse  line  the  top  of 
the  Point. 

Then,  as  the  eye  sweeps  eastward,  there  follow  North  Island,  Coronado, 
with  its  pinnacled  hotel  and  groups  of  trees,  beyond  which  is  a  point  in  Mexico 
on  the  lower  side  of  the  Tia  Juana  River.  In  the  foreground  is  the  slope 
leading  the  eye  down  to  the  shallow  waters  of  this  part  of  the  bay,  the  appear 
ance  reminding  Mrs.  Thorpe  of  the  marshes  of  her  Michigan  home.  Then 
comes  the  wide  sweep  of  the  bay  to  right  and  left,  the  narrow  outlet  to  the 
Pacific,  past  Ballast  Point  and  the  Quarantine  Station,  while  on  the  left  lie 
the  wharves,  the  municipal  pier  and  many  of  the  big  business  blocks  of  the  new, 
thriving  and  progressive  San  Diego,  beyond  which  is  more  of  the  bay,  hemmed 


32  ROSA  HARTWICK  THORPE  and  the  Story  of 

in  by  the  Silver  Strand,  and  the  Mexican  Mountains  to  the  south.  Even  then 
the  picture  is  not  complete.  Far  out  at  sea,  where  the  sun  kisses  the  ocean  in 
pearly  irridescence,  lie  the  Coronados  Islands,  the  two  principal  ones  looking 
for  all  the  world  like  giant  monuments  of  old  European  Crusaders  found  in 
the  dim  aisles  of  quiet  cathedrals.  Here  they  suggest  Nature's  monuments  to 
the  old  Spanish  Conquistadores — Coronado  himself  and  Juan  de  Onate,  per 
haps,  lying  a  few  miles  apart,  with  feet  pointing  almost  in  the  same  direction. 

Imagine  this  glorious  scene  at  night-time,  when  Point  Loma  from  end  to 
end  is  lit  up  with  vivid  electric  lights,  the  few  lights  of  the  Government  Avia 
tion  Station  setting  forth  North  Island,  while  its  sister  island  of  Coronado 
glistens  and  shines  in  the  corruscations  of  a  thousand  electric  bulbs  and  arcs 
on  the  hotel,  in  homes,  and  on  streets,  while  San  Diego  itself  is  ablaze  until 
long  after  midnight  with  the  wealth  of  lights  our  modern  cities  feel  to  be  a 
necessity. 

The  sight  is  an  inspiration  either  night  or  day,  but  by  day  busy,  bustling, 
active  life  adds  its  own  peculiar  charm.  Fussy  motor  boats  dart  to  and  fro ; 
vessels  with  sails,  yachts  and  schooners  attract  the  eye  with  their  spreading 
white  canvas  glistening  in  the  sun,  while  stately  ocean  steamers  and  the  pon 
derous  steel-clad  armored  cruisers  of  the  navy  add  solemn  and  majestic  dignity 
to  the  scene.  Aeroplanes  and  hydroplanes,  like  gigantic  dragon-flies,  skim  over 
the  water,  shoot  up  into  the  air,  or  dart  down  in  skillfully  directed  volplane 
back  to  earth  or  water,  suggesting  giant  condors  soaring  from  the  earth. 

Then,  too,  these  same  vessel  movements  on  the  bay  often  serve  to  enhance 
the  glory  of  the  night  scene,  for  when  battleships,  passenger  steamers,  and 
vessels  of  all  kinds  are  lit  up,  and  their  white,  green  and  red  lights  dance  in 
noiseless  measure  on  the  surface  of  the  waves,  there  is  a  new  beauty,  an  alluring 
attraction  of  the  night  that  thrills  writh  its  suggestions.  The  stately  ferry 
boats,  brilliantly  lighted,  silently  glide  back  and  forth  between  Coronado  and 
San  Diego,  or  across  to  Fort  Rosecranz,  while  now  and  again,  like  an  elephant 
among  burros,  a  great  passenger  steamer,  all  aglow  with  electrically-lit  state 
rooms,  each  port-hole  sending  forth  a  vivid  bull's-eye  of  light,  comes  in  from 
the  ocean  and  silently  moves  to  its  appointed  pier. 

It  surely  is  a  place  for  poet's  fancies  and  writer's  dreams,  and  there  need 
be  no  surprise  that  Mrs.  Thorpe  finds  great  delight  in  what  it  so  generously 
affords  her. 


LOVE     AND    LOYALTY. 


A     NEW    CONTRIBUTOR. 


THE  story  I  mean  to  tell  you  is  one  of  love's  : 
heroism.  It  has  come  down  to  me  through  ; 
.many  generations,  accompanying  a  picture  of; 
a  fair  young  girl,  about  whose  brow  cluster  [ 
masses  of  waving  brown  hair;  whose  face  is  elo-  • 
quent  with  the  sublime  faith  and  beauty  of  the  ^ 
old  legend.  She  looks  down  upon  me,  from  the  | 
canvas,  out  of  sad,  brown  eyes.  Her  hands  are  i; 
nervously  clutching  a  bit  of  parchment  which  s 
she  holds  from  her.  One  can  see  the  deep,  \ 
rough  ways  she  has  gone  through  for  that  > 
scrawl.  It  is  all  told  in  the  earnest  grasp,  in  ; 
the  fixed  brow,  and  the  straightened  lines  of; 
the  face.  She  seizes  it  as  one  might  clutch  \ 
from  death  a  precious  life.  Looking  up  at  her  •": 
pure  Saxon  face,  one  knows  why  that  staunch  » 
Cavalier,  Basil  Underwood,  loved  her — that  he  ^ 
was  worthy  to  be  loved  by  her. 

She  was  only  a  forester's  child;  the  only  one  ^ 
of  the  head  keeper  at  Underwood  Hall, 'down  in  ^> 
the  south  country,  but  a  pet  and  plaything  up  ^ 
at  the  hall  during  her  babyhood;  educated,  and 
almost  adopted  there  as  oneV  of  the  baron's  ? 
family  in  her  girlhood.  In  that  way  she  was  £ 
lifted  out  of  the  forester's  cottage  in  the  world  ^ 
of  the  then  fashion;  and  it  is  told  that  once,  at  ^ 
or  assembly,  she  was  graciously  <; 
upon,  by  that  first  Charles,  for  whose  <j 
grace  and  beauty  we  have  great  sympathy  even  i; 
unto  this  day.  One  thing  she  learned  that  day,  c 
as,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  the  baron's  son,  she  > 
courtesied  lowty  to  the  courtly  Charles,  that  was  • 
not  in  her  book  at  home '  love  for  king  before  : 
her,  and  love  for  Cavalier  beside  her.  That  • 
which  she  gave  the  king,  she  called  loyalty,  and  ; 
quite  a  different  thing  it  was  from  that  which '!: 
she  meted  out  to  the  comely  Basil.  How  could  ;• 
it  have  .been  otherwise?  She  and  he  so  long  i- 
playmates  and  friends  at  the  hall?  They  fell  i; 
into  Cupid's  snare  as  one  might  walk  over  a  > 
bank  in  sleep.  The  ojd  baron  and  his  wife  > 
were  of  the  simpler  sort,  and  seeing  which  way 
love  ran,  consented  to  let  it  run  smoothly,  and 
for  that  a  blessing  on  their  old  hearts,  which 
have  been  dust  these  two  ^hundred  years,  and 
more. 

But  the  dark  days  had  come  to  "Merrie  Eng 
land"  now.     There  were  a  goodly  majority  in  \ 
that  little  island  who  objected  that  royal  Charles,  i; 
and  royal  Charles'  Cavaliers  should  wear  their  I 


hair  as  Absalom  wore  his.  So  these  objectors, 
as  a  suggestive  method  of  expressing  their  dis 
pleasure,  shaved  their  own  off  close  to -their 
crowns;  yet,  with  less  than  no  effect  on  contu 
macious  Charles,  for  king  and  Cavalier  still  wore 
their  flowing  curls,  and,  in  derision  of  their  ob 
jectors,  called  them  Roundheads.  But  these 
Roundheads  were  men  of  terrible  earnestness 
and  meaning.  They  fancied,  in  their  earnest 
way,  that  England  was  going  wrong,  aad  that 
it  was  their  work  to  stop  her  on  her  fatal  way. 
I  am  afraid  they  had  no  very  strong  opinion  of 
expediency;  but  when  they  saw  a  lie  and  wrong 
they  smote  it  down,  not  stopping 'to  bless  it, 
either,  as  they  smote.  There  were  certain  truths 
they  held,  which  they  thought  the  world  should 
learn,  and,  with  Bible  and  sword  in  hand,  they 
went  forth  to  teach  them.  Revolutions  seldom 
lack  leaders — this  one.  did  not.  A  man,  pano 
plied  like  a  god  for  the  hour,  wa'  surged  up 
from  the  depths  of  the  people  to  set  right  old 
-^England's  wrong-.  Looking  at  this  Cromwell, 
.row,  through  some  old  portraits  of  the  libraries,, 
one  sees  not  a  cruel  face.  It  alv/ays  seemed  to 
me  to  express  the  sorrows  of  a  race  gone  wrong, 
a  sublime  face  pregnant  with  the  stern  meaning 
of  the  time.  I  know  of  those  hard  lines  about 
the  mouth,  the  square  jaw,  and  the  tiger  glare 
of  the  eyes.  But  under  it  all  the  man's  heart 
pulsed  finely  as  a  woman's.  It  was  full  of  an 
infinite  tenderness — majestic  with  a  purpose  that 
looked  down  the  ages.  Kent's  loyalty  to  poor 
old  Lear  is  one  of  those  stories  that  always  touch 
me  to  tears  through  its  beauty  and  pathos;  but' 
Cromwell's  loyalty  to  his  God  and  to  'England 
is  a  spectacle  sublime  and  beautiful  forever.  '  It 
has  made  the  sou  of  a  brewer  walk  side  by  side 
with  kings  and  queens,  crowned  loi-dlier  than 
them  all  through  two  hundred  years  of  history. 
But  this  is  history,  which  you  know  better  than 
I,'  and  not  the  story  I  meant  to  tell  you.. 

The  hall  was  deserted  now,  and  tenantless ; 
the  baron's  family  had  fled  before  the  approach 
of  the  army  of  the  Puritans.  Basil  was  some 
where  in  the  ranks  of.  Charles;  Bessie,  in  her 
glory  of  youth  and*  loveliness,  had  again  gone 
home  to  the  cottage,  not  a  very  suitable  place 
for  her  now  after  the  luxury  and  indulgence  of 
the  hall.  But  her  true  heart  bowed  loyally  to 
life's  duties;  sad,  too,  were  the  long  wintry 

18a 


186  L'OVE     AND     LOYALTY. 

*r--^.'--^^WW^-J'-'^'yx^^^-^*^-^^>^'^'-^^-X'Xw-^'^--^>'  V.'.-.  -  .  .    -,,...  *V-->  .  .  x   .    .    ,>,„..,....._    ......  ,'v  «  j  ««••*  •,•-•-'--*'»/..  ./uVjVi.-i/1  /•/**-,/•  VV/Vw'.AfV.V-VVVV'/1,^ 

days,  and  longer  evenings,  when  she  no  longer  s  inond  panes  into  the  clear  blue  of  the  sky.  The 
saw  the  face  of  her  lover.  But  to  the  heart's  £  refrain  of  an  old  Puritan  hymn  from  the  camp, 
core  he  was  loyal  to  her  as  to  his  king.  More  s  sweet,  tender,  and  mournful^  was  wafted  to 
than  once  had  the  neighing  of  his  horse  been  £  them  on  the  wind.  "It  is  for  me,  Bessie,  girl, 
heard  outside  the 'cottage  on  these  long  nights,  :  It  beckons  me  away,  dear." 
even  though  between  him  and  his  love  stretched  \  The  girl,  pale  and  trembing,  started  to  her 
thevlong  line  of  the  opposing  army.  jj  feet,  tie  had  been  ill  all  day,  she  knew,  but 

She  loved  him  as  most  young  maidens  love,'  -:  not  ill  like  this;  his  mind  wandered  now,  and 
•with  an  entire  abnegation  of  self;  so  that  though  j;  the  new  thought  that  drove  out  the  old  one  was 
her  happiness  was  only  full  when  he  was  with  •!  of  fields  beyond  the  confines  of  the  hall— beyond 
her,  yet  she  would  have  banished  him  forever  '<  human  ken.  The  dog,  roused  from  his  slumber 
rather  than  he  should  run  such  risk  of  death  in  |  by  the  girl's  cry,  dragged  himself  slowly  over 
seeking  her.  Her  tears  and  pleadings  that  he  j:  to  his  master's  side,  and  laid  his  head  upon  his 
would  consider  his  o-wn  safety  were  laughingly  J  knee,  with  a;  look  of .  unutterable  affection  and 
thrust  aside,  and  set  at  naught.  "He  bore  a  ^  yearning,  as  if  he  knew.  Bessie  held  her 
charmed  life,"  he  said,  "against  the  Round- s  father's  head  upon  her  breast,  sobbing  softly 
heads  bullets; 'he  knew  the  secret  ways,  the  ^  under  her  breath,  and  brushed  'the  white  hair 
hidden  paths  familiar  to  him  from  his  boyhood,  i;  from  his  temples.  The  old  dog  whined  now  and 
which  they  could  not  know.  There  was  no  ;>  again,  asking,  in  his  poor  way,  for  a  parting 
'danger,"  he  would  say,  tenderly  shaking  the  word.  It  came  at  last— to  him,  not  to  the  child. 


"Old  True!  we  know  the  forest  nooks!  The 
secret  places  where  the  hare  and  pheasant  hide;1 
for  so  many  days  we  have  known  them  together. 
Old  True— old  True!" 

Sobbing  loudly  now,  the  girl  bent  over  him, . 
begging  him  to  speak  to  her;  softly  the  moon 
light  .crept  up  his  feet,  and  breast,  and  lay  liW 
a  glory  of  peace  and  beauty  on  his  fair  and  sil- 


,rich  masses  of  her  brown  hair;  "and  if  there 
•were,  I  inust  brave  them  for  the  sake  of  some 
times  seeing  this  dear  face."  He  was  so  strong, 
and  brave,  and  wise,  this  Cavalier  of  the  olden 
time,  that  he  could  not  see  or  fear  danger;  and 
death  was  for  old  men,  not  for  lovers  and  sol 
diers  of  the  good  King  Charlie.  So  he-pushe'd 
danger  and  death  aside,  and  by  the  old  secret 

ways-  came  once  too  often  to  visit  his  Bonnie  $  vered  hair.  There  were  sounds  of  horses' hoofs 
forest  blossom.  v  without;'  the  door  swung  open,  and  Basil  stood 

A  still,  starlit  night  settled  down  upon  hall,  >,  there,  one  of  a  silent  group,  one  of  which  was 
and  church,  and  cottage.  The  moon,  rising  ^  as  yet  invisible.  The  opening  door  disturbed 
slowly  above  the  hills,  revealed  afar-off  the  £  the  old  forester  out  of  his  dream;  it  may  have 
white  tents  of  the  Roundheads-x  fn  the  old  $  been  of  one  of  the  bright  days  -gone;  or  his  in- 
church-tower  beyond,  the  bell  tolled  the  hour  of  i;  troverted  gaze  may  have  been  fixed. wpofl'f^-.'^ 

Jenrfew.  In  the  cottage  the  lights  were  out,  and  s  fairer  than  any  his  feet  yet  had  prfssed;  or,  who 
by  the  embers  of  the  fire,  where,  dreamed  and  •>  knows,  it  may.  have,  dwelt  upon  the  presence, 
dozed  a  dog,  sat  the  forester.  Too  old  and  $  whose  voice  he  seemed  to  hear  in  that  mind 
•weather-worn  for  a  soldier,  he  feebly  wended  his  |j  awhile  ago.  He  looked  up,  recognizing  Basil, 
•way,  until  late  days,  through  the  forest,  accom-  ij  "  You  will  take  care  of 'Bessie,  and  of  old  True?" 
panied  by  his  old,  dog,  True,  unmolested  by  i;  The  invisible  presence  in  the  room  became  visi- 

' Cavalier  or  Roundhead.  When  the  bnron  came  v  ble,  and  in  that  chill  hour  the  soul  of  the  old 
back  to  the  hall,  he  should  find  nothing  amiss  i>  forester  was  required  of  him. 
there,  the  old 'man  thought.  But  to-night,  with  ^  From  the  neighboring  hamlets  came  the  sim- 
Bessie  nestled  'at  his  knee,  a  new  thought  re-  ji  pie  foresters;  and  from  the  tented  village  came 
placed  the  old.  All  the  days  he  had  lived  came  Sj  the  bronzed  soldiers  by  one  or  two's,  or  larger 
back  to  him  to-night;  they  passed  before  him  i;  groups,  to  do  reverence  to  the  memory  of  their 
like  a  splendid  pageant.  There  was  a  tree  over-  j:  old  friend  of  the  forest.  So,  with  life-long 
hanging  the  low  gabled  roof,  one  of  its  branches  ;>  friends  about  her,  they  took  her  precious  dead 
swayed  in  a  gentle  wind  against  the  gotliic  win- 1;  and  laid  him  under  the  shadow  of  .the  tower,  be- 
dow,  through  which  the  moonlight  fell  in  a  •:  side  the  true  old  wife  who. had  gone  thither  be- 
wonderful  radiance.  It  stretched  across  the  ;>  fore  him.' 

room  to  the  old  man's  feet,  resting  there,  a  i;  Basil  would  not* leave  her  until  the  last  duty 
golden  path  to  the  heavens  above  him.  The  |i  was  done,  and  meanwhile  was  in  hiding  in  one 
noise  against  the  window  startled  him  from  this  $  of  the  numerous  forest  fastnesses  of  which  he 
new  thought  into  which  his.  mind  had  fallen,  $  so  well  knew.  When  night  had  come  again,  he 
and  he  turned  and  looked  out  through  the  dia-  }  was  standing  there  beside  her  in  the  sombre 


LOVE     AND     LOYALTY.  187 

^A*WV.AAAA^«.l<**^^ 

glimmer  of  the  cottage  fire.     "I  will  remain ;;  that  the  old  father  nor  Basil  were  no  longer 

here,"  she  said;    "the  Roundheads  never  are  ^  there.      They   would    not   come    again never 

rude  to  me."  In  the  forest's  walks  they  often  I  again,  never!  That  was  her  loss;  she  knew  it 
met  her,  doing  homage  roughly  out  of  their  man-  ^  all  now.  Father  and  Basil  could  H6t  come 
hood's  loyalty  to  a  pure  and  saintly  presence.  J  again — saying  it  over  to  herself.  But  God's 
A  sort  of  chivalric  loyalty  that  men  imbibe  $  love,  and .  father's  and  Basil's  love  were  with 
as  they  lie  in  babyhood  upon  the  breasts  of  ^  her  yet.  She  "knew  that.  Her  soul  was  strong 
mothers.  She  clung  to  him  now  with  love's  •;  in  that;  but  the  poor,  weak  heart  sobbed  itself 
feerce  tenacity,  and  besought  hinvto  incur  dan-  ••  to  sleep;  and  the  man  who  had  cared  for  her, 
ger  no  toore,  by  absenting  himself  from  the  ^  laid  down  upon  the  rug  before  the  fire,  loyally 
forest  unftl  the  happier  time  had  come  when  \  watching  over  her,  loyally  praying  for  good 
they  could  meet  in  peaceful,  .undisturbed  loving.  ;>  King  Charles  and  Master  Basil.  "God  forefend 


Her  tears-  fell  fast  upon  the  hand  she  held;  and 
•while  her  pleading  voice  made  a  music  in  his 
heart,  sweet  as  song  of  birds,  he  gave  her  the 
promise  to  cross  the  stern  old  Roundhead's  lines 


them  both  by  forest-path  and  open  field ;  in  court 
and  camp,  in  life  and  death,  God  find  them  with 
their  Christly  armor  /fa!"  A  goodly  prayer, 
to  which  let  all  true  hearts  echo,  Amen! 


no  more.  For  a  long  moment  he  held  her  close  ;,  The  young  Cavalier,  pursuing  his  saddened* 
to  his  great,  wide  breast,  stroking  tenderly  her  !;  thought,  had  never  slackened  pace  until  the 
shininsc  hair  and  tear-wet  cheek.  A  -trusty  $  forest  and  its  lengthened  shadows  were  lying, 
forest  friend  was  bringing  his  horses  up  to  the  s  ghost-like,  beftfrfd  hirrt.  But  now,  striking  the 
vdortta-ge,  his  steps  was  heard  outside.  Much  pain  $  hard,  open  road',  more  Caution  was  necessary, 
tfnd  sorrow  had  exhausted  the  girl's  natural  j;  though  the  enemy's  lines  had  bee*n'  passed,  and 
strength:  and  when  he  pressed  his  lips  to  hers  the  tread  of  the  far  out-lying  pickets  was  no 
cneek,  she  was  unconscious  that  he  did  so.  .  A-  i|  longer  distinguishable.  He  rode  carefully,  look- 
low,  warning  word  from  outside,  gave1  Mm  <;  ing  'ithead  into  the  gloom  of  the  night,  watchful 
notice  th&t  he.must  not  linger  longer.  H-e^Iaids  of  any  horseman  in  advance  of  him.  No  ontf 
the  girl  tenderly  down  upon  a  rude  stt'tle  b^  i;  in  advance,  but  behind  the  reverberation  of 
•the  fire,  and  leaping  to  the  saddle,  commended  J  iron-shod  feet  in  the  road.  A  single  horseman,' 
^her  to  the  care  of  the  man  who  stood  there  with"  s  too.  It  might  be  a  foeman,  but  it  was  not  yet 
his  horse.  The  forester,  giving  him  the  bridle;  $  time  for  flight; 'time  enough  for  that  .-when 
said,  "Ride  fast  to-night,  your  hand  upon  your J;  challenged,  and  the  odds  against  him.  He 
sword.  'Bear  no  man  company;  there  is  mount-  x  slackened  his  speed,  'arid  drew  the  rein  closer 
ing  in  haste  in  the  camp  yonder,  as  if  in  pursuit.  '>  to 'the  foot-path. 

*THf*  if  4*»ger  in  the  forest  to-night;  whispers  ^  "Who  goes  there?"  This  challenge  from  tie" 
of  spies  from  the  royal  forces  abroad.  Take  ;>  rider,  who  had  now  come  up  with  him.  *'A 
heed  that  no  man  bear  you  company."  ;•  friend,  if  friendly  proven,"  replied  the.  Cavalier,. 

"Fear  not  for  me,  good  Luke;  they  have  no  <;  laying  his  hand  quietly  on  the  sword's  hilt, 
such  mettle  in  their  steeds  as  this  one  boasts.  Ij  "A  fair  night,  friend."  "A  fair  night,  friend," 
He  and  my  sword  will  be  safeguards  enough  5;  answered  Basil.  "What  of  the  cause,  friend?" 
against  any  single  foeman."  ^  Basil  leaned  forward,  that  he  might  see  the  face 

He  rode  swiftly  away  over  the  yielding  sward,  ;>  of  the-new-fou^d  friend,  and  answered  the  last 
and  soon  became  undistinguishable  amid  the  i;  challenge,  "For  God  and  King  Charles,  the 
low-hanging  foliage.  s  cause  prospers."  "We  will  ride  in  company,1 

"A  venturesome  youth  is  Basil,"  said  Luke,  i;  and  so  it  please  jjou;  two  swords  being  better 
as  he  went  within  the  cottage;  and  seeing  the  i;  than  one."  "An  it  please  you,  we' will,"  was 
slight  form  of  the  beautiful  girl  upon  the  settle,  s  Basil's  reply.  The  man  was  no  foeman.  The 
added,  "So  would  I  have  been  in  my  hot  day  $  questions  he  gave  showed  him  to  be  of  the  camp 
of  youth  for  maiden  fair  as  this."  v  of  the  Cavaliers.  A  face  little  seen  under  the 

Not  the  best  nurse  for  a  delicate  girl,  but  as  $  slouched  beaver  he"  wore ;  but  that  little  seen 
true,  delicate,  tender  a  one  as  any  woman.  S  had  nothing  prepossessing  in  it,  to  our  young 
The  fine,  sweet  instinct  of  loyalty  to  woman- ?  friend  Basil;  a  face  to  ghun  when. met  by  the 
hood  was  in  his  heart,  filling  each  drop  of  warm  jj  road-side,  on  a  dark  night,  when  one's  sword 
blood  seursingtHere.  \  rested  in  its  sheath  at  home.  A  scowling, 


He  chafed  her  nands,  and  threw  some  water 
in  her  face,  when  the  soft,  brown. eyes  opened 
wide  on  him  in  a  gaze  of  wonder  and  inquiry. 
Then  they  slowly  closed  again — for  she  saw 

VOL.  XLVIIL— 11 


mean  face,  full  of  subtility  and  cunning ;  a  face 
for  foul  deeds  and  b,lack  work.  A  spy — the  man 
against  whom  he  had  been  warned.  To  be  cap 
tured  in  his  company  was  death— worse  than 


188  LOVE     AND     LOYALTY. 


death  ignominy.  How  was  he  to  shake  him  off?  s'  tired,  healthy  men.  Whatever  dream  came  to 
They  were  both  enlisted  in  the  same  good  cause,  5  them  gave  no  token  of  to-morrow's  doom.  The 
one  fur  love  and  one  for  hire.  How  did  he '  Cavalier,  waking  in  the  chill  gray  of  the  morn- 
know  that?  This  fellow  beside  him  might  have  £  ing,  saw  the  face  .of  th,e  man  he  had  left  at  the 
as  fine  instincts  of  loyalty  as  any  that  warmed  £  cottage  last  night.  "Do  not  tell  her,  old  friend," 
his  own  heart,  and  fired  it  to  heroic  deeds.  This  5  he  said;  but  he  was  too  late — the  man  was  gone, 
vile,  low  face,  might  be  only  a  mask,  hiding  a  \  The  sun  rose  that  morning  over  that  little 
right  loyal  soul.  Yet  against  this  man  the  i>  world  of  England,  looking  upon  no  sadder  sight, 
warning  had  been  spoken.  What  matter?  He  j  I  think,  than  that  of  the  fair  young  Bessie  listen- 
•would  take  the  risk;  was  not  the  danger  all;  ing  to  the  story  of  Basil's  capture.  No  tears 
left  behind  in  the  camp  of  the  Roundheads?  >  were  in  her  eyes;  dark  linefc  came  underneath 
But.  in  the  solemn  hush  of  the  night,  he  raised  ^  them;  her  mouth  grew  fixed  and  rigid;  her 
his  hat  and  prayed-  for  King  Charles,  the  lady  >  hands  were  buried  with  a  nervous  clutch  in  the 
of  his  love,  and  his  own  safety.  ;|  lapels  of  the  forester's  coat.  She  clung  to  him 

Rashly,  madly  resolved,  young  Cavalier:  The  ^  desperately,  as  if  he  could  help  her,  as  if ;"  some 
enemy  was  upon  them.  From  a  bit  of  forest «.  way  he  could  save  Basil.  He  was  to  be  tHe^' 
lying  adjacent  to  the  road-side  the  Roundheads  ij  with  the  spy  at  high  noon.  Cromwell  would  be 
swarmed  clown  upon  them.  Stern  work  was  J;  at  the  camp  to-day — maybe,  at  the  trial.  He 
there.  Twenty  stern  old  soldiers  setting  to  [.  had  been  an  old  friend  of  her  father's  in  that 
•work  to  cap-ture  two  men  who  defiantly  faced  ^  earlier,  better  time.  Since  then  he  had  sat  at 
them  with  swords  out,  and  death  in  their  eyes.  !;  their  homely  board — was  friendly  still,  she 
It  lasted  but  a  moment.  There  was  a  sharp  <  knew.  Why,  this  stern  old  Puritan  had,  caress- 
.clash  of  steel,  a  resounding  blow  from  the  \  ingly,  held  her  orf  his  knee,  when  she  was  a 
sword  of  Basil  upon  a  Roundhead's  steel  cuirass,  <  little  child.  If  she  plead  for  this  Basil's  life, 
which  sent  the  trooper  reeling  from  his  steat,  <".  would  the  grim  old. soldier  remember  her,  anil 
and  shattered  ihe  young  Cavalier's  weapon.  £  what  had  gone  before?  Let  us  hope  he  would' 
That  was  the  end  of  it.  •  Basil,  unarmed,  was  [  for  the  day  when  memories  of  a  better,  quietci 
easily  made  prisoner  now.  The  spy  was  already  >  life  could  sway  him  were  fast  fading.  In  that 
captured  and  bound.  They  searched  them  on  J  after-time,  when  Naseby  was  to  be  fought  and 
the  ground,  where  they  had  fought.  From  the  I  won ;  when  a  king  was  to  be  dethroned— im- 
dress  of  the  spy  they  took  convincing  evidence  i  prisoned;  when  a  scaffold  was  to  grow  in  a 
of  his  guilt — plans  and  drawings  of  their '<  night  in  the  street  opposite  to  Whitehall,  and 
works — specifications  of  their  numbers — and  <  the  Royal  Charles  to  lie  there,  with  his  fair  neck 
descriptions  of  their  arms.  $  upon  the  block;  a  man,' with  a  nins'r  JinlHincr 

What  will  poor  Bessie  say  when  she  hears  of  s  the  kingly  head  before  the  multitude,  saying, 
;this?  Poor  Bessie!  with  the  dead  face  of  the  j  "This  is  the  head  of  a  traitor!"  it  would  be 
father  lying  there  only  yesterday,  and  his  dead  $  too  late  for  memories  then.  Let  us  be  glad,  for 
face  to-morrow!  His!  God  help  poor  Bessie!  <:  Bessie's  sake,  that  these  days  had  not  yet  come. 
And  God  help  them  all!.  Amen.  j>  At  noon  the  prisoners  was  led  into  the  court, 

They  carried  them  to  the  foot  of  the  hill,  jj  held  in  the  long  room  through  which  they  passed 
where  quietly  rested  a  few  hamlets  and  the  <:  to  their  prison  last  night.  A  dark  room,  set 
gray  old  church,  with  its  ivy-covered  tower  ;j  round  by  dark,  earnest  faces.  They  wei-e  there 
looming  up  hundreds  of  feet  into  the  night.  '  for  serious  cause.  The  painful  stillness  was 
The  prisoners  were  taken  to  a  low-gabled  \  only  broken  by  the  clang  against  the  oaken 
building  on  the  outskirts  of  the  hamlet — a  thick,  \  floor  of  a  gaunt  old  soldier's  sword,  as  he  strode- 
stone-walled  house,  with  heavily-mullioned  win-  >  to  his  place  at  a  deal  table,  about  which  sat  a 
•dows,  looking  out  into  the  dark  street  and  fields.  \  dozen  warriors — grim  men  of  iron,  in  leathern- 
.About  the  door  stood  a  group  of  griin-visaged  \  jerkins,  used  to  the  din  and  smoke  of  battle, 
soldiers,  silent  and  stern,  looking  keenly  into  t.  and  loving  its  carnage  better,  in  their  Puritan 
the  face  of  the  young  Cavalier,  but  speaking  no  <  hearts,  than  this  quiet  way  of  sending  men  down 
word.  They  passed  through  a  long,  low  room,  \  to  their  'death.  Relentless  men,  where  duty 
wainscotted  half-way  to  the  ceiling.  In  the  5  was  to  be  done;  hardened  by  long  years  of  civil 
rear  of  that  was  the  guard-room,  low-ceiled,  ;j  war,  and  through  believing  that  God  h|*l  sent 
red-tiled,  and  cleanly  enough.  There  spy  and  >  the  sword  in  their  hands,  to  the  end  that  they 
Cavalier  laid  down  together.  When  to-morrow  s  might  restore  the  olive-branch;  full  of  a  strange 
•came,  where  would  they  be  lying  then?  They  v  superstition  and  religious  enthusiasm,  which 
-slept  on  the  tiled  floor  the  refreshing  sleep  of  ^  made  them  bad  judges  and  irresistible  soldiers. 


LOVE     AND     LOYALTY. 


Crowding  about  the  room  were  the  people  of  \  leaving  me  a  precious  trust  to  his  care.  He 
the  hamlets,  all  in  eager  sympathy  with  at  least  ij  was  with  me  through  my  long  days  of  suffering 
one  of  the  prisoners  —  Basil  had  played  and  5  and  sorrow.  He  was  no  spy."  "But  a 
grown  up  with  many  of  them.  Between  hall  ^Royalist?"  "Yes!  loyal  to  his  king-  and  to 
and  hamlet  there  was  little  difference  in  those  j  his  manhood,  which  would  not  let  him  be  a 
days.  They  loved  him,  every  one,  for  his  frank  ?  spy.  Upon  'my  soul,  brave  gentlemen,  not  a 
and  manly  ways;  for  his  hardy,  healthful  youth  *spy!" 

and  comeliness;  for  all  that  he  had  been  to  $  Bravely  spoken,  little  maiden!  Yet  these 
them  in  their  some  time  want  and  pain.  They  <!  are  stern,  duty-loving  men  you  address.  They 
spoke  low  and  excitedly  together.  "He,  a  <;  see  heroic  faith  and  simple  truth  shining  through 
spy!  Our  Basil,  of  the  hall,  a  spy!"  and  the  j;  your  eyes;  and  they  also  see  a  maiden  battling' 
speaker's  voice  rose  high  with  indignation.  A  ^  for  her  lover's  life.  The  blush  alone  told  them 
woman  timidly  touched  his  arm,  and  asked  if  ^so  much.  The  prisoner  has  looked  up  but  once 
she  might  stand  beside  him  during  the  trial,  jj  while  she  speaks.  He  sees  the  fine  crimson 
She  could  see  Basil  from  there,  and  he  could  =!  mantling  the  cheek,  and,  with  life  gliding  from 
not  sec  her.  It  was  best  he  should  not.  But  v  him,  he  takes  farewell  of  its  sweetest  hope  and. 
he  would  know  all  the  same  she  was  there.  ^  fairest  dream.  She  has  gone  back  to  her  place, 
After  awhile  she  asked  the  man  if  he  would  hold  %  and  the  man  gives  her  his  arm  to-lean  upon  — 
her  hand  the  while.  "I'm  not  strong  to-day,"  snot  so  strong  as  when  he  gave  her  his  hand 
she  added,  apologetically.  He  took  her  hand,  ^  awhile  ago.  She  never  looked  away  now  from 
and  held  it  in  his  strong,  horny  fingers,  tenderly  tthc  faces  of  the  court.  She  will  see  their  verdict 
as  a  woman.  \  written  in  their  iron  visages  before  they  have 

Silence  now,  terrible  in  its  intensity,  reigned  :>  spoken  it.  They  confer  together.  Silence,  awful 
throughout  the  room.  The  prisoners  were  to  "<  and  profound,  reigns  throughout  the  sombre 
be  tried  together,  and  were  arraigned  and  called  i>  old  room.  The  grotesque  faces  in  the  wain- 
upon  to  answer  to  the  specifications  of  the  >  scoting,  stare  forward,  waiting  for  their  verdict. 
charge  of  being  spies  of  one  Charles,  against  <j  Men  breathe  fast  and  heavily.  They  love  this 
the  honor  and  dignity  of  the  commonwealth.  >  young  man;  from  his  boyhood  up  he  has  been 


"How  say  you,  Robert  Sherwood  and  Basil 
Underwood,  guilty  or  not  guilty?" 

The  spy,  desisting  for  a  moment  from  gnaw 
ing  the  nails  of  a  dirty  hand,  slowly  lifted  his 
head,  and  looking  toward  the  court,  made  an- 
"Guilty!" 

"1/Vt'g iulty.'"~*  -Clear,  earnest,  and  deep  as 
an  organ-tone,  fell  upon  the  court — the  answer 


so  noble,  brave,  and  unselfish  in  his  instincts; 
so  true  to  them;  so  observant  ever  of  their  rights. 
Something  out  of  their  own  lives  will  be  lost 
when  his  is  forfeited.  In  dreadful  stillness 
they  await  the  verdict,  and  from  all  hearts  an 
unspoken  prayer  ascends  for  the  prisoner.  If 
he  would  only  speak  .it  might  notTyet  be  too 
late. 


of  Basil  Underwood.  \     He  rises  slowly  from  his  seat.     Life  is  so 

The  court  proceeded  to  the  evidence.  Only  ij  s~weet  to  him  to-day.  "He  will  not  lose  it  without 
this  it  was.  This,  a  confessed  adherent  of  him  s  one  poor  effort.  He  craves  the  indulgence  of 
called  King  Charles  I.,  vras  found  at  night,  in  jj  the  court — a  moment  only  he  will  detain  them, 
unfrequented  ways,  bearing  company  with  his  ^Permission  to  speak  is,  granted  him.  "You 
fellow  prisoner,  upon  whose  person  were  found  sknow,"  he  said,  in  a  clear,  musical  voice,  "that 
conclusive  proofs  of  guilt.  Nothing  more.  For  ;•  what  this  maiden  has  just  spoken  is  truth, 
the  commonwealth;  the  case  was  closed.  "Had  ^  Where  she  left  off  I  will  begin.  I  had  cressed 
the  prisoner  any  witnesses  to  call-in  his  de-  syour  lines  bypaths  unknown  to  your  troops, 
fence?"  Basil  bowed  his  head  on  his  hands, 'j  and  coming  upon  the  high  road,  and  being  on 
and  answered,  "None!"  Hope  slipped  the  $  my  way  to  join  the  forces  of  the  king,"my  master, 
leash  in  that  moment,  and  was  gone.  At  this  -j  was  accosted  by  my  fellow-prisoner  here.  From 
instant  a  girl  made  her  way  through  the  crowd,  i ;  signs  he  gave  me,  I  recognized  him  as  being  of 
and  took  her  place  beside  the  table  of  the  court.  '<  the  king's  forces,  but  in  what  capacity  I-  only 
Quietly,  modestly  she  said,  "I  wish  to  be  sworn  <  guessed.  Of  what  he  knew,  I  nothing  knew — 
on  behalf  of  the  prisoner."  She  was  sworn.  ^  he  having  communicated  nothing  to  me.  A 
In  a  few  simple  words  she  accounted  for  Basil's  '>,  moment  after  he  found  me,  your  troops  were 
presence  near  the  enemy's  camp.  "Such  an  s  upon  us.  I  therefore  claim  the  rights  and  kos- 
old  friend  of  father's  and  mine,"  she  said,  with  ij  pitality  of  a  prisoner  of  rank  taken-  in  honor- 
womanly  crimson  covering  cheek  and  brow,  ^ablc  warfare,  and  as  such,  my  life  is  not  forfeit 
"My  father  died  in  his  arms  the  night  he  came,  '  to  the  commonwealth." 


100  LOVE     AND     LOYALTY; 


A  stir  of  pleasure,  rising  out  of  a  hope  that  <1  to  hinoi  amid  the  clash  of  steel,  and  the  snort  of 
the  simple  earnestness  of  his  speech  would  save  <>  battle-steeds;  with  sword  in  hand,  leading  heroic 
him,  swayed  the  multitude.  i;  legions  to  victory  for  good  King  Charles.  But 

Again  the  court  conferred  together;  then  the  «i  this  death,  away  from  the  contested  field,  was 
prisoners  were  bidden  to  stand  and  look  upon  £  a  death  a  dog  might  die — not  a  man.  Thus  he 
the  court.  They  did  so.  The  hands  of  the  :•  thought  and  wondered  in  his  mind,  as  he  looked 
spy  tremblingly  wandered  about  his  mouth;  s  out  over  the  hills  and  fields  to  where  the  old 
his  eyes  were  bent  upon  the  ground,  and  an  $  church-tower  rose,  covered  with  its  eternal 
fiWful  pallor  overspread  his  face.  Doomed,  and  ^  verdure,  brightened  by  greit  masses  of  sunlight, 
afraid  to  die.  There  was  a  record  of  dark  deeds  s  Slowiy  the  day  wort  on.  An  hour  or  more 
lying  behind  him,  in  those  years  gone.  Death  j  before  curfew  Bessie  had  one  hope — she  would 
touched  him,  and  he  trembled.  His  fellow- 'j  see  Cromwell.  H.»  must  and  would  save  Basil. 
prisoner  was  paler  than  since  the  trial  began ;  %  It  was  miles  away  to  the  camp.  Then  she 
but  his  face  was  the  face  of  a  man  who  had  I  would  seek  him.  Basil  was  not  guilty;  Crom- 
looked  upon  death  often,  and  knew  it  was  only  ^  well  was  just — it  was  his  pride  and  boast  that 
sleep.  He  knew  of  the  pleasant  vales  of  Eden —  •!  he  was  that.  He  should  do  justice — Basil  should 
cf  the  better  country  beyond.  The  hand  which  ^  live.  He  could  not  die,  for  his  life  was  hers; 
firmly  held  the  chair  before  him  was  clear  of  <!  hers  until  the  good  God  demanded  it  of  her.  It 
guilt;  behind  him  no  dark  record  lay  open ;  s  was  not  to  be  forfeit  now.  She  knew  that  the 
immortality  glowed  within  him.  He  stood  upon  J  stern  old  soldier  should  be  just;  ay,  that  was 
the  shining  shore,  and  the  waves  of  death  surging  ^  the  word — just.  He"  would  be ! 
to  ward  him,  gave  him  no  terror.  ^  Just?  There  was  yet  to  come  the  solemn, 

A  war-begrimed  soldier  rises  from  his  place  \  awful  spectacle  of  the  scaffold  in  front  of  White- 
as  spokesman,  and  reads  in  slow,  dead  tones,  j;  hall,  and  royal  Charles'  head  laying  thereon, 
the  finding  and  sentence  of  the  court.     "The  s  Yet  this  was  to  be  when  the  grim  soldier,  Crom- 
prisoners  at  the  bar  are  found  guilty  as  to  all  $  well,  grew  to  his  greatness, 
the  charges  and  specifications  upon  which  they  ^      Through  line  after  line  of  pickets  she  passed 
were  arraigned,  and  the  sentence  of  the  court  <  on  her  way  to  the  tent  of  the  general;   hlpr' 
is,  that  they  be   taken  from   this  place  to  a  $  resolve   and  noble  purpose  nerved  her  hear. 
place  of  confinement,  and  from  thence  to  the  i;  She  would  be  strong  to-day ;  steel-hearted,  a<- 
square,  in  view  of  the  quarters  of  the  general  ^  these    bronzed  warriors ;    steel-nerved,    clear- 
commanding,  and  there  to  be  shot  to  death,  at  i;  brained  to  execute  her  purpose, 
the  ringing  of  the  curfew  next  ensuing;  and  £      "  It  is  for  Basil,"  she  said,  as  she  stood  before 
may  God  have  mercy  on  their  souls'!"  ji  the  spacious  tent  of  the  soldier,  Gpomwp!'>>  •& 

Bessie  Leard.  A  sharp  cry  of  pain,  as  if  a  <  either  side  stood  the  guard,  as  if  but  "Half  on; 
heart  had  broken,  rang  through  the  room.  '£  duty.  "I  would  have  speech  with  General 
"Women  wept,  and  wrung  their  hands;  and  men  £  Cromwell."  "He  is  absent  from  the  camp," 
Went  tearfully  out  into  the  air.  They  could  s  said  a  guard.  "Yet  he  will  be  here  before  th< 
not  breathe  there  where  death  came  so  close  to  ^  curfew?"  "He  will  come  to-night;  but  no 
them.  A  few  women  gathered  about  the  girl,  <:  before  curfew."  This  from  a  grim-visagec* 
and  bore  her  to  her  home.  The  prisoners  were  i;  Rouadhead,  who,  leaning  on  his  halberd,  re- 
led  back  to  their  prison — between  them  and  ^  gards  the  girl  curiously.  Her  head  was  sunk 
death  a  few  brief  hours  lay.  To  die  at  curfew!  s  to  her  breast;  her  hands  grope  darkly  on  the 
Oh,  God!  how  dear  life  had  suddenly  grown  to  $  folds  of  her  dress.  That  was  the  last  hope, 
this  young  Cavalier.  He  did  not  think  that  his  5;  Only  for  an  instant  she  feels  the  keen  pain  of 
heart  could  ever  so  tremble.  His  old  mother  ^  its  loss,  and  then  the  sickening  blindness  of 
and  father,  when  they  knew?  Why,  he  would  i;  despair,  arising  out  of  her  weakness  to  save 
never  see  them  again,  here— nor  Bessie.  Youth's  i;  the  life  dearer  than  her  own,  fills  her  brain  and 
hopes  were  his  then;  he  meant  that  she  should  %  eyes.  Slowly  raising  her  head,  she  sees  the 
one  day  be  mistress  of  the  hall  and  the  broad  \  guard  yet  regarding  her  with  a  look  as  nearly 
acres.  They  were  to  live  their,,  lovers  forever,  \  akin  to  pity  as  any  that  ever  visited  his  face, 
helping,  nourishing  Christ's  poor,  and  little  s  She  sees  him ;  the  other  guards  standing  idly 
ones.  A  thousand  times  he  had  planned  that,  j  about;  the  long  rows  of  tents;  the  standards; 
Last  night  only  he  had  held  her  in  his  arms —  !J  the  glistening  arms;  and  beyond  them,  to  the 
had  heard  her  voice  in  loving  music.  To-night —  Jj  westward,  the  sun,  sinking  down  in  crimson 
to  die!  This  death  he  had  ne.ver  dreamed  of.  i;  glory  behind  the  old  tower,  where,  swung  the 
He  might  sometimes  have  fancied  it  would  come  $  curfew-bell.  It  has  been  so  many  voiced  to 


r-'-'-'w"'/"J".-"'-'-'-'-"''-'-' ••-'-'-•••--•-•-•-'•• -V'.'. 

LOVE     AND     LOYALTY.  191 


her  in  all  those  years  gone;  from  earliest  child-  <  tower,  for  his  step  was  slow,  and  it  was  a  good 
hood  she  and  it  have  been  such  true  friends.  £  mile  off,  and  ere  they  reached  it,  it  would  be 
Only  she,  she  fancies,  knows  all  its  tones,  and  ;  time  for  the  curfew."  Thus  saying,  he  took  up 
all  their  deep  and  solemn  meaning.  She  recalls  \  his  hat  and  the  keys,  and  walked  beside  her, 
how  sad-voiced  it  was  tkat  day  -when  its  shadow  ^  along  the  path  she  had  come.  Slowly  he  began 
first  fell  above  her  mother's  grave;  how  full  of  >  to  understand  what  it  was  she  required  of  him. 
comfort,  too,  seeming  to  blend  pity  in  its  tones  \  "There  must  be  no  curfew  to-night!  Here  were 
for  her  loss,  as  if  it  knew  and  cared.  She  \  jewels  and  gold — a  fortune  for  such  as  he;  it 
remembers  other  days,  when  anger  and  strife  jj  would  make  his  old  age  bright,  and  free  from 
were  in  her  heart,  how  its  mellow  music  softened  ij  thought  and  care.  Besides,  a  dear  life  would 
away  the  bitter  feeling.  So  often,  in  that  hap-  £  be  saved  to  her.  He  would  do  it!  He  would 
pier  time,  it  has  summoned  her  to  hear  words  |j  not  sound  Basil's  death-knell!  For  the  love  of 
of  helping  grace  and  faith — words  that  cheered  <j  the  good  God  he  would  not  do  that!  He  roughly 
her  life,  and  blessed,  the  hours  she  lived.  All!;  pushed  her  bribe  away;  he  assumed  a  stern 
this  feebly  passing  through  her  mind  as  she  s  manner,  and  gruffly  refused.  What  else  coufld 
watches  the  sun  fading,  slowly,  surely  fading,  $  he  do?  To  the  good  cause  of  Christ,  whom -he 
falling  beyond  the  town.  It  is  to  be  endowed  ^  served  under  the  great  Cromwell,  Basil  was 
with  a  new  voice  to-night;  to  swing  out  from  s  a  traitor  and  enemy.  Not  his  enemy,  else  he 
its  height  in  the  gloom  of  the  sky  solemner  $  would  have  saved  him.  The  old  heart  was 
words  than  it  spoke  ever  before — words  of  i;  tender,  but  Cromwell  and  his  times  cased  tender 
death  to  the  heart  of  the  young  Cavalier.  s  hearts  in  iron  shells;  and  he  refused  her,  even 

-She  repeats  slowly  to  herself  the  words  of  i;  as  they  reached  the  foot  of  the  great  tower, 
the  stern  old  guard,  "He  will  be  here  to-night,  $  wherein,  above  them,  hung  the  great  bell,' 
but'  not  till  after  curfew."  Then,  fires  must  >  shrouded  in  the  darkening  sky.  His  hand 
blaze,  and  tapers  biu-n  with  the  stars  to-night.  {  was  on  the  latch,  and  the  oaken-door  was 
The  curfew  shall  not  ring.  She  has  jewels  and  $  pushed  open,  when  he  turned  to  say  some  final 
coin  with  which  the  old  verger  may  be  bribed  \  word  to  her,  but  she  was  gone, 
from  his  duty.  If  she  plead  with  him,  offered  $  As  the  door  swung  back  from  the  old  man's 
him  these  bribes,  Basil  might  be  saved — for  ^  hand,  an  impulse,  springing.^out  .of  defeated 
Cromwell  would  come  to-night;  and  Cromwell,  ;j  purpose  and  hope  beaten  down,  seized  the  mind 
for  the  sake  of  the  old  love  he  bore  her  father,  i;  of  the  girl.  She  looked  upward  within  the 
would  pardon  Basil,  if  she  asked  it.  She  would  S  tower;  but  a  few  of  the  crumbling  stairs  could 
fall  at  his  knees,  and  not  be  torn  away  till  he  jj  be  distinguished  above,  darkness  covered  them 
jpfc^  pardoned  Basil — and  he  would  do  it,  hard  £  like  a  pall.  With  an  awful  shudder  vibrating 
an~d*9tetfr-us  he  seemed.  She  -had  .passed  the  j;  through  every  nerve,  and  the  strength  of  her 
guard,  and  quickly,  by  the  old  mill-path,  ap-  <i  mind,  heart,  and  soul,  bent  to  a  single  thought, 
proached  the  verger's  cottage.  An  old  man,  $  she  dashed  past  the  old  verger,  and  her  feet 
quite  deaf  to  sound  of  his  own  bell,  or  voice  of  ^  pressed  the  stairway  into  murky  space,  where 
priest,  and  almost  blind  now,  his  years  had  $  before,  for  three  centuries,  no  feet  but  hers  had 
been  so  many;  with  only  strength  enough  to  $  trod.  With  her  soul  sickening  within  her,  sus- 
ring  the  old  bell  on  the  tower,  and  build  the  Ij  tained  only  by  the  hope  that  would  not  die, 
church  fires,  he  was  retained  in  his  place  more  j;  she  went  upon  her  fearful  flight,  cheating  death 
for  past  services  than  for  present  ones.  He  sat  \  of  its  victim,  irresistible  in  her  lovaand  daring, 
now  on  the  broad  stone  at  his  door,  smoking  \  as  a  fate  standing  between  the  comely  Cavalier 
his  pipe,  his  hat  and  the  church-keys  lying  jj  and  the  grave  that  yawned  to  claim  him. 
beside  him.  He  had  stood  by  the  quaintly- i;  A  single  line  of  blood-red  was  in  the  sky  yet, 
carved  font  when  she  was  held  there  in  the  ^  and  the  hour  of  curfew  had  come.  About  the 
priest's  arms  to  be  christened — such  a  wee  tiny  j:  door  of  Basil's  prison  stood  a  guard  of  solemn, 
thing  then,  a  grand  and  graceful  lady  now,  but  j;  earnest  faces.  They  looked  away  silently  to- 
mindful  of  him  in  her  advancement.  He  had  i;  ward  the  tower  rising  still  and  sombre  against 
many  things  within  the  old  cottage  to  remind  s  the  sky.  They  waited  for  the  curfew  as  one 
him  of  her  kindness  since  those  first  days  of  i;  within,  prayerfully  kneeling  on  the  tiled  floor 
her  babyhood.  Too  feeble-sighted  to  see  the  ji  of  his  cell,  waited.  They  leaned  upon  their 
agony  of  her  face,  or  to  notice  the  excitement  -j  fire-locks,  liking  not  this  shooting  of  a  man  in 
of  her  manner,  the  old  man  rose  and  bowed  to  $  cold  blood.  They  wished  in  their  hearts  it  was 
her  quaintly  «as  a  cavalier.  ''She  wanted  speech  \  over, 
with  him?  Then  she  must  follow  him  to  the;  As  the  verger  touches  the  dangling  rope,. 


192  LOVE     AND     LOYALTY. 

'  •       '   '  f.'SSS  '\X>.«*'  ,-*f  *..''•'"-»**-••  * s  sr*sss.'  '_>•-'  fS'S-'-.-sj'Sss.'s.'ss-s.'.-s  -.'.~.-.~Sss  .'s   -  ,-j'.'.-~'^.*.'SS-'-f-'-^J~^SS^~SJ*-~,'^.~J".-,^'-*S^J\>'^,-*.-*S'S~S-~ 

something  falls  to  his  feet  from  the  steps  above.  ^  its  red  fires  gleam  out  in  crimson  belts  of  light 
"A  bit  of  the  oaken  stair,"  he  says,  picking  it  i;  and  warmth  over  the  hills  and  low-lying  Tallies; 
up  "Crumbling  away  together,  we  are;  church  i:  voices  of  men  shout  out  a  battle-hymn  of  the 
and  verger,  aljke  growing  old  together."  The  >  Loril  they  serve.  It  is  borne  to  her  upon  the 
old  man  forgets  that  the  tower  was  a  gray-  <;  winds  in  tones  of  unutterable  sweetness,  for 
beard  of  hundreds  of  years  when  he  was  yet  a  |i  distance  has  robbed  the  thousand  voices  of  all 
puling  babe.  "Not  ring  the  curfew!"  he  mut-  jj  coarseness.  They  read  a  fiery  gospel,  and  en 
tered.  "False  to-night  in  what  I  never  once  i;  farced  it  with  burnished  steel. 
failed  in  before?  Yet,-  she's  a  comely  lass;  and  «t  Her  feet  must  not  yet  fail  her,  for  her  work 
he  a  good  youth,  and  not  a  spy,  either;  but  he  <•  is  not  yet  done.  A  few  rods  more,  and  the  tent 
dies  for  the  good  cause."  s  of  the  warrior  Cromwell  will  be  reached.  At 

Had  his  eyes  been  less  dim,  and  the  gloom  s  last  she  is  there;  the  guards  send  the  challenge, 
within  the  tower  less  dense,  he  might  have  £  and  receive  for  reply,  "A  friend,  who  craves 
seea,  far  above  him  orUh«  oaken  stair,  a  woman  !;  speech  with  the  general,  Cromwell."  They  make 
slowly  ascending;  upward,  upward,  over  quick  \  way  for  her,  let  her  pass  into  the  presence  of 
and  dead,  her  delicate  hands  pressing  for  sup-  ;>  the  man  she  seeks.  Let  the  day  and  the  hour 
port,  with  horrible  disgust  and  loathing,  the  ^  be  responsible  for  whatever  was  hard  or  cruel 
reeking,  slimy  walls;  hei;  strength  almost  gone;  s  in  this  man's  career.  A  hard  and  cruel  hour  of 
but  upward  through  paths  of  vermin-life,  by  $  anarchy  and  blood  moulding  the  man  into  the 
which  swarm  noisome,  poisonous  reptiles.,  and  s  shape  he  was.  What  freer,  fairer,  more  gener- 
uncouth  shapes  unknown  to  her,  she  toils  on. 'sous  youth  than  he  once  was  in  all  England? 
Above  her  darkly  hangs  the  bell;  below,  the  :>  History  sends  back  the  answer — none.  In  her 
old  verger  stands  ready  to  give  it  speech  and  s  hour  of  greatest  peril,  Borne  gave  up  her  vested 
"meaning,  new  and  terrible.  At  last,  she  stands  •>  rights  and  sacred  liberties  into.the  hands  of  one 
on  the  narrow  platform  beneath  it — can  touch  i;  man,  and  let  him  act  the  tyrant  as  he  willed, 
its  sides.  It  shall,  not  speak  those  words  of;)  so  saved  they  the  republic.  It  was  England's 
death.  Slowly  it  begins  to  move,  her  hands  ;>  day  of  sorest  need  when  she  recognized  this 
seize,  with  the  grasp  of  death,  its  ponderous  j;  Cromwell  as  her  saviour,  and  gave  \\p  to  him 
tongue,  and  as  the  rope  descends,  she  is  swung  s  her  rights  and  privileges — a  soldier  sworn  for 
out  into  the  black  sky,  hundreds  of  feet  above  $  God  and  England.  Great,  masterful  «blows  he 
the  undistinguished  earth.  Again,  and  again,  s  struck  for  them ;  great  wro»g#Ae  did  in  their 
and  yet  many  times  she  sways  to  and  fro  with  £  names.  But,  let  us  believ.e-  he  dad  the  best  he 
the  motion  of  the  bell  above  the  earth,  and  yet  !>  knew ;  as*may  others  believe  it  of  us,  when  our 
her  hands  are  strong  as  iron,  stronger  than  ^  turn  comes  to  be  adjudged.  Not  that  we  J»S?S 
mortal  hands,  unnerved  with  love,  could  ever  $  stride  down  the  ages  with  kings  and  queens  for 
be.  To  and  fro,  for  the  allotted  time,  the  ver-  s  company,  but  that  the  least  of  us  shall  have  an 
ger  swung  the  bell,  and  yet  was  the  curfew  s  audience  of  critics  one  day  coming, 
silent  of  its  new  voice  and  meaning,  for  love-  $  He  did  not  notice  her,  nor  rise  as  she  ap- 
nerved  hands  held  fast  its  tongue,  and  made  it  i;  proached,  as  any  cavalier  would  have  done, 
dumb.  Crornvrell  would  come  to-night,  and,  •!  An  orderly  stood  in  waiting,  whom  Cromwell 
bless  God!  the  hour  of  curfew  had* gone  by,  and  !>  thus  commanded:  "Get  you  quickly  to  the  cot- 
Basil  lived.  "He  shall  die  at  the  ringing  of?  tage  of  the  old  verger  by  the  mill;  tell  him  the 
the  curfew,*'  said  the  stern  soldier  judge;  and,  s  hour  of  curfew  is  long  since  gone,  and  bring  me 
in  the  solemn  meaning  of  the  sentence,  till  then  $  answer  why  he  hasjjot  tolled  the  bell;  weighty- 
lie  cannot  die.  \. matters  depend  upon  his  duty  being  done" 

To  the  camp  again,  and  there  to  wait  and  s  She  did  not  longer  wait  for  him  to  give  her 
wait  till  Cromwell  comes.  Dark  shapes  and  i;  greeting,  but  said  quickly,  "You  will  not  send 
fearful  noises  fill  the  air  as  she  descends,  but  J  this  soldier  on  his  errand  till  I  have  speech  with 
the  lowermost  stair  is  reached,  the  wide  door  £  you?  To  me  more  weighty  is  the  matter  that 
grates  again  upon  its  hinges.  She  looks  back  i;  I  bring  than  can  concern  the  tolling  of  that  bell 
upon  the  hamlet  and  sees  lights  burning  in  \  to  you.  I  come  for. justice,  noble  Cromwell; 
every  window.  There,  too,  is  the  prison,  and  ;>  you  hold  in  vile  duress  a  prisoner  of  war,  con- 
there,  also,  burn  the  tapers,  though  fhe  stars  i;  dcmned  to  death  upon  a  charge  of  which  he  is 
fill  the  world  with  brightness.  A  dull,  numb  jj  not  guilty.  Hear  from  me  the  truth  before  you 
pain  fills  her  limbs;  her  hands  are  dead;  her  i|  let  that  soldier  go  upon  his  way." 
feet  wander  from  the  path,  and  her  brain  whirls  i-  "I'll  hear  you,  maiden;  soldier,  wait  without." 
in  a  dizzy  trance.  But  yonder  lies  the  camp,  |i  The  man  withdrew;  and  the  story,  as  she  knew 


LOVE     AND     LOYALTY.  19S 


it  from  Basil's  defence,  and  of  her  own  infor- }  me,  and  you  will  link  two  hearts  to  you,  by  ties 
niation,  she  related   to  the  chief.      With  what  s  of  love,  stronger  than  links  of  steel.     Your  vic- 


gracc  of  speech  it  sprang  from  her  lips,  till  it 
seemed  alive  with  heroic  truth  and  beauty,  I 


torious  legions  count  their  slain  by  thousands; 
I  ask  but  one  poor  life,  it  is  dearer  than  my 


fain  would  attempt  to  portray,  but  dare  not.  <  own.  You  relent!  You  will  pardon — for  the 
The  soldier  knew  that  what  she  spoke  was  i>  dead  father's  sake,  you  will.  You  have  eaten 
truth;  that  the  man  she  loved  could  not  lie.  \  of  his  bread,  and  you  dare  not  kill  his  child. 
Yet  this  Basil  Underwood  was  one  to  fear;  the  $  For  the  sense  of  justice  that  is  eternal  within 
peasantry  around  shout  out  a  cause,  whose  holi-  >  you,  you  will  give  me  back  the  life  I  crave." 
ness  they  could  not  see,  for  love  of  him.  Itj  Not  a  stern  line  of  the  war-worn  face  that 
would  be  well  to  have  him  removed;  God  accom-  ij  was  not  melted  away.  "If  God's  work  were 
plished  His  good  purposes  by  allowing  evil  to  \  only  done;  if  it  were  work  less  hard  and  cruel 
triumph;  so  might  he  do  this  seemingly  evil  £  to  do,"  he  thought,  as  memories  of  that  olden, 
act  that  good  to  the  cause  might  come.  "He  \  happier  time  poured,  like  an  avalanche,  through 
is  a  Royalist;  if  he  dies  not,  maiden,  the  good  $  his  mind,  moved  by  the  force  of  the  girl's  words. 
. cause  must  suffer ;  so— he  dies."  Slowly  he  said  j;  A  sad,  old  man  even;  weary  of  the  leathern 
ft,  like  one  making  up  his  mind  to  a  deed  from  s  jerkin  and  the  weighty  sword.  To  redeem  old 
which  his  soul  revolted.  But  a  great  pity  was  i;  England,  yet  not  to  see  the  day ;  He  was  not  to 
on  his  face  now.  He  remembered  this  girl,  and  ;j  pass  over  inlo  that  promised  land.  But  his 
her  old  father,  too.  Years  and  «y.ears  ago,  be-  ^  people  did,  arid  let  us  trust  that  from  the  heaven 
fore  the  cause  had  wakened  him  from  peaceful  !>  above  us  the  grim  old  saint  looks  down  and  sees 
ways,  he  and  the  girl's  father  had  been  friends;  i  his  work  completed. 

and  he  remembered  he  had  permission  given  >  He  raised  the  girl  to  h*r  feet,  and  placed  his 
h:;y»,  once  from  the  baron,  to  shoot  upon  his  >  hands  upon  her  head  caressingly.  In  that  far- 
preserves,  and  for  many  days  he  was  the  old  s  off  city  of  London  he  had  a  daughter,  too, 
forester's  guest.  How  generous  in  their  humble  £  maybe  he  thought  of  her,  and  fancied  he  had 
hospitality  they  were  to  him  then!  Let  him  re-  $  done  bis  work,  and  by  his  own  hearth  caressed 
member  this,  for  upon  him,  too,  is  the  shadow  i  her  as.  In  that  earlier  day.  It  was  to  be. a  long 
of  death  stealing,  and  ere  long  it  will  help  his  ;»  white  tiefore  he  saw  her  again ;'  and  when  .he 
soul  upward  that  he  forgot  not  these  things.  '-.did  see  tier,  lie  was  a  prisoner,  and  in  prison 
The  girl  came  close  to  him.  Either  hand  she  J  she  visited  and  ministered  unto  him.  In  these 
placed  upon  his  wide  breast.  Low,  steady-  ^  prison  hours  to  come,  it  will  be  good  for  him  to 
voiced,  calm  as  a  star,  she  stood  above  him,  !;  remember  what  he  did  this  night.  He  sat  down, 
«iud  said,  "You  dare  not  do  this  thing.  The  j  and  on  a  bit  of  parchment  wrote  out. a  pardon 
good  Mftgiej}  whom  we  both  serve,  will  not  let  \  for  "one  Basil  Underwood,  unrighteously  held 
you  do  it.  This  man  is  innocent;  ugon  my  soul,  \  under  sentence  of  death  as  a  spy;  to  be  re- 
he  is  not  guilty!  Look  through  my  eyes,  down  s  leased  upon  his  parole  of  honor,  not  to  absent 
into  my  heart's  depths,  and  tell  me  if  a  spy  \  himself,  without  leave  of  the  commanding  gene- 
could  there  be  throned  and  crowned.  I  do  love  i  ral,  from  beyond  the  ancient  landmarks  and 
him ;  I  love  him  for  his  noble  soul,  which  knows  s  surveys  of  the  hamlet  of  Underwood."  He 
no  taint  of  sin  or  shame;  I  love  him  for  the  \  placed  it  in  her  hands,  only  saying,  "Take  this, 
pure  truth  that  dwells  within  his  heart;  I  love  i;  that  justice  may  be  dene.  You  shall  bear  it  to 
him  that  he  ia  loyal  to  his  king — the  king  that,  j!  his  prison." 

in  his  mother's  arms,  he  learned  to  say  his  ^  She  thanked  him  in  only  such  words  as  full, 
nightly  prayers  for.  See^ferave  Cromwell!  men  j;  love-burning  hearts  can  utter,  and  quickly 
fear  but  love  you  not.  I'm  here  at  your  feet,  s  turned  to  the  tent-door.  He  had  not  moved 
the  whilom  child  you  nursed  upon  your  knee.  \  since  he  gave  her  the  parchment,  but  stood 
I  kneel  to  you  and  ask  for  simple  justice,  and  \  with  folded  hands  wistfully  regarding  her.  He 
you  deny  me.  I  can  recall  the  day  and  hour  <j  seemed  not  to  hear  her  grateful  words;  nor  t® 
you  held  me  to  your  breast,  and  whilst  you  jTnotice  that,  even  as  she  thanked  him,  her  gaze 
pressed  a  kiss  upon  my  cheek,  you  said,  'God;!  was. fixed  upon  the  pardon,  which  she  clutched 
be  ever  with  you,  little  bairn,  tenderly  keeping  $  with  a  grip  of  death-like  tenacity;  that  her  eyes 
you  and  all  your  loves.'  Oh,  Cromwell!  they  $  seemed  to  devour  it,  not  to  see  him  at  all.  If 
are  all  dead  but  this  one!  Yesternight  I  saw  s  in  that  hour  the  awful  shadow  came  near  him, 
my  father  laid  in  his  grave;  my  mother  lay  be-  $  it  should  have  touched  him  then,  for  it  was  his 
side  him  there  these  many  years  dead.  Brother  ;  royal  hour  of  life,  the  one  in  which  his  soul 
or  sister  have  I  none.  Give  this  one  backlog  stood  nearest  to  its  Master.  Her  hand  was 


LOVE     AJTD     LOYALTY. 


raised  to  push  aside  the  curtain  at  the  door,  j  again  fair  as  any  lily  of  her  native  valley ;  and 
when,  in  a  voice,  gentle  as  her  own,  he  called  J  health  and  beauty  crowned  her  with  their  peren- 
her  name.  She  turned  toward  him,  and,  as  if?  nial  blossoms,  and  she  grew  in  grace  and  come- 
their  souls  stood,  for  the  moment,  on' the  same  :>  liness. 

broad  platform  of  eternal  truth  and  humanity's  i  The  happy,  peaceful  days  had  come  again  to 
love  made  perfect,  she  stretched  out  her  two  ^  merry  England,  In  the  revolving  years,  the  old 
bands  Coward  him.  i  baron  and  his  wife  passed  away  to  their  long 

With  painful  slowness  he  spoke,  and  his  man-  £  h«me;  and  the  new  baron,  Basil,  held,  his  court 
ner  was  that  of  a  man  gone  blind  in  all  the  i  in  the  hall  of  his  ancestors, 
tenets  of  his  faith,  like  one  lost  in  a  monstrous  ^      Cromwell,  too,  has  passed  the  day  in  which 
sea  of  doubts.     "This  w  God's  ,svork?"  ques-  s  all  his  deeds  were  to.  be  accounted  for.     They 


tioningly  he  said  this,  and  then  added,. "I  fear, 
sometimes.  Oh,  God!  if  I  have  erred,  show  my 
feet  the  right  way;  I  meant  to  be  the  servant 


have  been.  His  record  is  open  only  to  his 
Master,  whom,  let  us  believe,  he  served  with 
ail  the  light  there  was  within  him.  And  let  us 


of  Thy  will;  lead  me,  thy  servant."     He  bowed  \  try  to  remember  him  as  he   stood  that  day 

his  head  lowly  before  her,  as  if.  he  saw  in' this  $  within  the  Parliament-House,  his  face  aglow 
child  one  nearer  to  his  Christ  than  he,  and  said, }  with  fiery  zeal,  his  drawn  sword  reflecting  God^ 
"lay  your  hands  upon  me,  child,  and  say,  God  |  red  sunshine,  as  he  uttered  these  memorable 
save  and  bless  thee,  Cromwell."  ..  Withjstartled  ^  words:  "I  have  sought  the  Lord  night  and  day, 
thought  she  looked  up  into  his  face,  and- what  i  that  he  would,rather  slay  ine,  than  put  me  upoa 

.she  'saw  there  filled  her  heart  with  a  great  pity  \  this  work."  Solemn  words,  these.  Let  us  be- 
and  tenderness  for  this  man.  J3he  saw  a  great «;  lieve  that  this  man  felt  them  down  to  the  depths 
and."  god-like  soul  tossed  and  torn  in  a  mael-  j  of  -his,  soul;'  that  they  were  tho  key-note  to  all 

"strom  ,of  doubts  and  misgivings— -a  soul  sick  |  that^  jangled  music,  out  of  tune,  that  went  before 

•  unto  death,  crying  out  with  unutterable  pathos 

L'and  yearning  for  light— light — light! 


She  laid  her  hands  upon  the  bowed  head,  and 


and  after  in  his  life. 

As  the  years  .went  on,  tiny  feet  and  childish 
voices   echoed   through   the    oaken    corridors. 


slowly,  reverentially  repeated  the  words;  then  i  These  little1  ones  added  a  new  grabe  and  radi- 
she  sped  away  through  the  tented  streets,  and  <  ance  to  the*  hall;  among,  them,  wae  a  kingly 
the  picketed  fields  toward-  the  prison, -where,  \  Charlie,  and  a  Cromwellr  too.  '  In  the  loug 
beyond  the  tower  and  ihe  bell,  her  lover  was  \  gallery,  where  hung  the  family  pictures,  Basil 
held.  She  would  be  in  time;  the  ground  seemed  \  was  wont  to  linger  most  over  the  latest  portrait 
to  fly  beneath  her -feet;  but  at  last  the. prison :J  there.  The  little  Cromwell  of  the  hail,  by 
was  reached.  She  would  .not  give  the  pardon^  times  observing  this  fancy  of  his  father's,  qvues- 
to  the  old  guard ;  she  held  it  tightly  clasped  in  \  tioned  him  regarding  it.  Then  h<-  tol^liim '  the 
her  poor,  bruised  hands,  while  with  a  grim  j;  story  of  the  picture,  aad  the  old  bell  in  the 
smile  he  read  it.  .He  humored  her  whim,  as  $  tower.  For  two  hundred  years,  generation  have 
who  would  not?  So  fair,  and  true,  aad  brave  \  told  it  to  generation,  as  the  picture  was  handed 
.she  ;was,  the  glamour  of  an  heroic  deed  per-  <  down  from  one  to  tbe  other.  I  have  now  told 
formed  shone  -like  a  halo  about  her  fa.ce.  He  jj  it  to  you,  thus  giving  away  our  family  story, 
led  her  to  the  room  where,  in  the  morning,  Basil  s  and  it  is  ours  no  longeiv  But  the  picture  is  a 
had  been  tried,  then  released  his  prisoner,  and  >  sweet  poem  to  me  forever.  Its  colors  glow  with 
brought  him  to  her.  "Now,  maiden,  you  will£  autumnal  warmth, .and  have  the  depth  of  Faler- 
yield  me  up  the  parchment?  The  prisoner  is \  nian  wine  in  antique  vase.  In  4he  face  above 
free."  She  placed  it  in  the  hands  of  Basil,  ?.me,  framed  in  its  wealth  of  waving  h^ir,  there 
saying,  "Give  it  you  to  the  .soldier.  I  have  $  are  no  sweet  possibilities  of  love,  of  which  "it 
snatched  it  from  the  skies."  £  does  not  give  assurance;  there  is 'noiome-which 

Without  understanding,  he-did  as  she  bade  i>  it  would  not  bless.  Adorn  your  homes  with  pic- 
hirn,  and!  the  soldier  was  gone.  And  now  Basil Y  tures— they  are  civilizers.  A,  picture  on  your 
held  an  unconscious  form  in  his  arms.  When  <:  walls,  commemorating  a  loving,  heroic  deed,  if 
its  work  was  done,  the  tired  body  gave  way;  it  i>  it  is  mellowed  into  immortal  tones  end  tints  of 
had  been  sorely  tried.  She  loved  much,  and  for  i;  beauty,  as  mine  is,  will  be  found  an  exhaustless 
her  love  had  dared 'and  done  much.  To  such  \  store  of  pleasure.  But  better  than  picture, 
much  love  is  given.  It  was  to  her.  A  free  man  \  marble,  er  bronze,  or  aught  else  with  which 
now,  Basil  carried  her  to  an  old  dame's  house,  j;  to  make  beautiful  your,  home,  is  a  wife,  who, 
and  there  watched  over  her  for  many  days.  But  •:  if  she  has  not  swung  from  curfewrtower  to  save 
when  the  weary  watch  was  over,  she  bloomed  $  your  life,  would  do  it,  if  occasion  required.. 


CURFEW  MUST  NOT  RING 
TO-NIGHT" 


BY 


ROSE  HARTWICK  THORPE 


ROSE  HARTWICK  THORPE  and  the  Story  of 


"CURFEW  MUST  NOT  RING  TO-NIGHT" 

ENGLAND^    sun   was    slowly    setting   o'er    the   hill-tops 

far  away, 
Filling  all  the  land  with  beauty  at  the  close  of  one 

sad  day; 
And  its  last  rays  kissed  the  forehead  of  a  man  and 

maiden  fair, — 


He   with   steps   so   slow   and   weary;    she   with    sunny, 

floating  hair; 
He  with   bowed  head,   sad   and   thoughtful ;   she,   with 

lips  so  cold  and  white, 
Struggled  to  keep  back  the  murmur,  "Curfew  must  not 

ring  to-night." 


CURFEW  MUST  NOT  RING  TO-NIGHT 

"Sexton,"   Bessie's   white   lips   faltered,   pointing   to   the 

prison  old, 
With   its   walls   so   tall   and   gloomy,   moss-grown   walls 

dark,  damp  and  cold, — 


45 


"I've   a   lover   in   that   prison,    doomed   this   very   night 

to  die 
At  the  ringing  of  the  curfew ;  and  no  earthly  help  is 

nigh. 
Cromwell  will  not  come  till  sunset ;"  and  her  lips  grew 

strangely  white, 
As    she    spoke   in    husky    whispers,    "Curfew    must    not 

ring  to-night." 


46 


ROSE  HARTVVICK  THORPE  and  the  Story  of 


"Bessie,"  calmly  spoke  the  sexton  (every  word  pierced 
her  young  heart 

Like  a  gleaming  death-winged  arrow,  like  a  deadly 
poisoned  dart), 

"Long,  long  years  I've  rung  the  curfew  from  that 
gloomy,  shadowed  tower; 

Every  evening,  just  at  sunset,  it  has  tolled  the  twi 
light  hour. 

I  have  done  my  duty  ever,  tried  to  do  it  just  and 
right : 

Now  I'm  old,  I  will  not  miss  it.  Curfew  bell  must 
ring  to-night!" 


CURFEW  MUST  NOT  RING  TO-NIGHT 


47 


Wild  her  eyes  and  pale  her   features,   stern  and  white 

her   thoughtful   brow ; 
And    within    her    heart's    deep    centre    Bessie    made    a 

solemn  vow. 
She  had  listened  while  the  judges  read,  without  a  tear 

or  sigh,— 
"At  the  ringing  of  the  curfew   |>asilV  Underwood  must 

die.'' 


ROSE  HARTWICK  THORPE  and  the  Story  of 


And  her  breath  came  fast  and  faster,  and  her  eyes  grew 

large  and  bright; 
One   low   murmur,    faintly   spoken,   "Curfew   must   not 

ring  to-night!" 
She   with   quick   step   bounded    forward,    sprang   within 

the  old  church-door, 
Left   the   old   man   coming   slowly,   paths   he'd   trod   so 

oft  before. 


CURFEW  MUST  NOT  RING  TO-MOHT 


49 


Not   one   moment    paused   the   maiden, 

But,  with  cheek  and  brow   aglow, 
Staggered    up    the    gloomy    tower, 

Where   the   bell   swung  to   and   fro ; 
As  she  climbed  the  slimy  ladder, 

On    which    fell    no    ray   of   light, 
Upward   still,  her  pale   lips   saying, 

"Curfew    shall    not    ring    to-night!" 


She   has   reached    the   topmost    ladder ;   o'er   her   hangs 

the  great,  dark  bell ; 
Awful    is    the    gloom    beneath    her,    like    the    pathway 

down  to  hell. 
Sec!   the   ponderous   tongue   is   swinging^  Jtis   the   hour 

of  curfew  now, 


50 


ROSE  HARTWICK  THORPE  and  the  Story  of 


And  the  sight  has  chilled  her  bosom,  stopped  her  breath, 

and  paled  her  brow. 
Shall  she  let  it  ring?     No,  neverl^   tferryes-  flash  rwith 

sudden  light, 
As   she   springs,   and   grasps   it   firmly:     "Curfew   shall 

not  ring  to-night!" 


CURFEW  MUST  NOT  RING  TO-NIGHT 


51 


Out    she    swung, — far    out.      The    city 
Seemed    a    speck    of    light    below,— 
There    'twixt    heaven    and    earth    sus 
pended, 
As  the  bell  swung  to  and  fro. 


And  the   sexton   at  the  bell-rope,   old   and   deaf,  heard 

not  the  bell, 
Sadly  thought  that  twilight  curfew  rang  young  Basil's 

funeral  knell. 
Still  the  maiden,  clinging  firmly,  quivering  lip  and  fair 

face  white, 
Stilled   her    frightened   heart's   wild   beating:      "Curfew 

shall  not  ring  to-night!" 

It  was  o'er,  the  bell  ceased   swaying;   and  the  maiden 

stepped  once  more  * 
Firmly   on   the   damp   old   ladder,   where,    for   hundred 

years  before, 
Human  foot  had  not  been  planted.    The  brave  deed  that 

she  had  done 
Should  be  told  long  ages  after. 


52 


ROSE  H. \RTVVICK  THORPE  and  the  Story  of 


As  the  rays  of  setting  sun 
Light    the    sky    with    golden    beauty,    aged    sires,    with 

heads  of  white, 
Tell  the  children  why  the  curfew  did  not  ring  that  one 

sad  night. 


M 


CURFEW  MUST  NOT  RING  TO-NIGHT 

O'er  the  distant  hills  comes  Cromwell.     Bessie  sees  him ; 

and  her  brow.  x 
Lately   white    with    sickening   horror,    has    no    anxious 

traces  now. 
At   his    feet   she   tells   her    story,    shows   her   hands   all 

bruised  and  torn ; 


And    her    sweet    young    face,    still    haggard,    with    the 

anguish  it  had  worn, 
Touched  his  heart  with   sudden  pity,   lit  his  eyes  with 

misty  light. 
"Go!    your    lover    lives,"    cried    Cromwell.       "Curfew 

shall  not  ring  to-night !" 


54 


ROSE  HARTWICK  THORPE  and  the  Story  of 


Wide  they  flung  the  massive   portals,   led  the  prisoner 

forth  to  die, 
All    his    bright    young    life    before    him.      'Neath    the 

darkening  English  sky, 


CURFEW  MUST  NOT  RING  TO-NIGHT  55 

Bessie    came,    with    flying    footsteps,    eyes    aglow    with 

lovelight  sweet; 
Kneeling   on   the   turf   beside   him,   laid   his   pardon    at 

his  feet. 

In   his   brave,    strong   arms   he   clasped   her,   kissed   the 

face  upturned  and  white, 
Whispered,  "Darling  you  have  saved  me,  Curfew  will 

not  ring  to-night." 


lyl  U  S  IG      COPY  ING. 

_        ,  'NOTICE  IS  HEREBY  GIVEN    ' Tfuit  by  v/rfti.*  of  t7z*  5  &6  -Vie.  Cup:45.  See.  2. 
/  ""l1  ttxcl"a*v  Hbei-lvi'fiiwki/Kj  i,inimsrrii>t  ,,r  other  copies  of  copyright  works  is  vestal  in  llu>,>wnfrof.Htcli  cojyriylit 

nyttt/ier persons  nuikUHjuiu-h  ntfiirjf  witficul  tin- /»Ttnixxii>ii  o/'lli,-  will mvnfr  KfNDCR  THEMSELVES  UABLE  TO H£AV* PENAITIES  Oft  DAUAGCS. 
T/ie  tiyn.i/jonitwii  o/'i-tytyny/il  .wit/*-  into  orlicr keys  wit/witt permission  IS  AH  UNLAWFUL  COfVlNS. 

TO    MISS    OLIVE     KENNETT. 


CURFEW     MUST     NOT     RING    TO-NIGHT 


Words     by 

ROSA  HART  WICK  THORPE. 

.Andante  sostenuto. 

PIANO 


Music     by 

STANLEY    HAWLEY. 


England  s    sun  was  slowly  setting  oer  the 


close  of  one  sad  day}    And  its 


all  the  land  with  beauty  at  the 


last  rays  kissed  the  forehead  of  a 


I 


man  and  maiden  fair,-  He  with 


steps  so  slow  and weary^she with 


WPP 


P  CJ 


N.  B.     This  poem  is  published  by  arrangement  with  the  Authoress.  For  musical  adaptation  it  has  been  slightly  altered. 
N?6.  Recihtion-Mnsic  Series. 

COPYRIGHT MDCCOXEY  by  ROBERT  COCKS 


sunny,  floating  hair}        He.  with 


bowed  head,  sad  and  thoughtful*  she  with 
canlubile. 


lips  so  cold  and  white,         [Struggled  to  keep  back  the  murmur,  Curfew  must  not  ring  to_ 


jSextonjier  -white  lips  faltered,  _  pointing  to   the  prison  old,   With    its 


walls  so  tall  and  gloomy,  mossgrown 

» 


walls,   dark,    damp  and  cold,—         Ive  a 


col  la  parte. 


p  n 


T^T 


lover    in    that    prison,     doomed     this 

fc     11 


very      night         to          die  At      the 


N°.  «.  Rcnitation-Mnsic  S 


2(»,80». 


ringing    of      the      Curfew;       and       no          earthly      help      is       nigh.        Cromwell 


spoke  in  husky  whispers,  Curfew 
0    *»  $                                   cantabile 

must     n< 

at        ring                  to  _ 

night!' 

(g)  $ 

PP 

—  —  J    »w 

1 

-* 

•          H 

- 

. 

ft 

= 

. 

^'•g'  J 

Maiden,ealmly  spoke  the  se 


xton(every  word  pierced  her  young  heart  Like  a  gleaming  deathMang'darrow,like8 


gloomy,shado\ved  tower;  Every 


N?  •.Recrtatiftn-MnsiP  Series. 


20.809. 


4 


evenmggust  at  sunset,it  has 


tolled' the  twilight  hour.    I  have 


done   my  duty  ever,  tried  to 


do  it  just  and  right:  Nowlm 

O 


old,  I  will  not  miss  it.  Curfew 


bell     must      ring  to- 


r? 


p  e 


night.  She  with 

jnolto  Tit :~, 


quicl?  steps  bounded-forward^prang  with  in  the  old  church  door,  Left  the 


old     man     coming     slowly,   paths  he'd 


oft  before.     Not        one 


momewt   paused    the   maiden,    But,    with         cheek     and       eye      aglow,   Staggered 


N9«.  Recitation -Music   Series. 


2030ft. 


up      the     gloomy     tower,     Where  the 


.bell       swung  to  and  froj  As    she 


***** 


i 


climbed-- --the     slimy   ladder,    On  which        fell     no        ray     of       light,  Upward 


<&2>!  & 

still,  her  pale  lips  saying,  Curfew 


reached       the      topmost      ladder;      o'er      her         hangs     the    great,  dark    bell; 


Awful  is  the  gloom  beneath  her,like  the  pathway  down  to  helLSee!the)[ponderous  tongue  is  swinging;tisthe 


hour  of   curfew  now,  And  the 


sight  has  chilled  herbosom,stopp'dher 


breath^ndpaled  hertrow.Shall  she 


/.  T 

mJ     affrett:  ores.- 


aim  He. 


ova  bassa. 


.  Q    t{ 

let    it     ring?     no, 

never!       Flash     her 

eyes    with-    sudden    light,     As       she 

-                J  —  1 

i 

't    '' 

*/ 

"T  "  3 

r 

>• 

-TWT—                     —  3— 

—  J  •  —  !  d  —  rrl  

springs,and  grasps  it  firmly:  Curfew 


shall    not        ring to_ 


night!'  (Xit  she 


ftr'X^    ^ 


r: 


J?  c£a    I         % 


®s>    * 


swung,-  far  out.     The       city     seemed      a 


speck     of       light       below^-There  twixt 


f 


poco  rneno. 


heaven     and    earth    suspended,       as      the 

I/  *il  ,    JN             -    fcl  

<&*  simile. 
bell  -swung      to     and     fro.       And      the 

1  —  5  —  ^-  ~+  J-nrJ  

PP                   N                     1           v 

r                      7        r                    3" 

dim:                      js.                                \ 

^^  it  —  f-n  —                      —  f-.  —       —  -^-  

—  f~-  —                          —  f~'  — 

We.  R*-'cit:rtinn-Mii«ii'  Scries. 


sexton  at  thebt    rope, old  and 


I 


deaf,  heard  not  the  bell,  idly  [thought  that  twilight  curfew  rang  her 


loverls  funeral  knell.  Still  the    maiden,clinging  firmly,quivering  lip  and  fair  facewhite,Stilled  her 


frightened  heart's  wild  beating:     Curfew        shall       not    fifig..  to  •_  Anight!. 


^ *M-^n 


k — -i 


«f- 


It  was 


o'er,tiie  bell  ceased  swaying;andihe 


maiden  stepped  once  more,Where  no 


cantatrile. 


rH 

human  foot  had  trodden  for  some 

hundred     years 

,  rl 

before. 

I             '. 

Andwhe 

n 

,          "•'             * 

s  —  s>  i 

> 

J»7           J 

**; 

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